by Jenna Glass
And then there were the invitations. Just a few at first, and she declined them on the assumption that Princess Alysoon was behind them and would not be offended—or surprised. But then they kept coming, and sometimes they were from people who seemed unlikely to have been prompted by the sovereign princess, for they were not inside her social circle.
Eventually, Shelvon accepted an invitation to tea at the house of a young woman named Maidel, who had once been an abigail in the Abbey of Aaltah and now worked as a scribe at the Academy. Shelvon had encountered Maidel a few times on the street, although they had not spoken. Shelvon could recognize in the young woman’s body language a shyness similar to her own, no doubt due to the unsightly red blotch that marked her otherwise pretty face. Shelvon accepted the invitation in part on a whim, and in part because she hoped that someone like Maidel would understand if Shelvon was quiet and demure and allowed the other guests at the tea to do the majority of the talking. It seemed the gentlest introduction into society she could imagine, and she did not like the feeling that she was being rude or hurting someone’s feelings every time she turned down an invitation.
The gathering for the tea party was gratifyingly small, with only three other women in attendance in addition to Shelvon and Maidel, and Shelvon was pleasantly surprised at how they managed to make her feel included and welcome without demanding that she somehow entertain them with her nonexistent wit. Then, just as Shelvon was relaxing into her role as nearly silent observer, sipping her tea and enjoying the feeling of easy camaraderie, her four companions all shared some silent communication via significant glances, and all attention suddenly focused on her. Shelvon tensed.
“We all just wanted to tell you how very much we admire you,” Maidel said, her habitual shyness showing in the softness of her voice and her demurely lowered eyes.
Shelvon was left speechless as Maidel’s companions nodded. “A-admire me?” she finally stammered, shaking her head at the odd notion. “Whatever for?”
Maidel’s eyes widened in surprise. “Why, for fighting off that brute, of course!”
Heat flooded Shelvon’s face and her shoulders hunched forward in a way that she knew was particularly unattractive. “I didn’t fight anyone off,” she demurred, remembering the terrible feeling of her attacker looming over her after she had fallen, of the helplessness that had swamped her. “H-he knocked me down and broke my ribs. And he would have…he would have…”
Princess Alysoon had told her exactly what the brute’s mission had been, and her whole body shuddered in horror at the thought of what would have awaited her in Nandel. She’d been disgraced enough already, but she would have been considered even more tainted for having spent at least a couple of weeks the captive of some dirty Aaltah mercenary as they traveled from Women’s Well to The Keep.
“But he didn’t,” Maidel said when Shelvon’s voice failed. “You defended yourself long enough for help to arrive, and because of that, you are safe and he was hanged.” Her three companions murmured agreement.
Was that why everyone was looking at her differently these days? Did they actually believe she had done something admirable? When she was in the lowest of moods, she’d seen those changes as signs of pity, but even on better days, she had read nothing into it but compassion and commiseration. Certainly she’d never considered that they admired her.
Shelvon shook her head, putting down the cup of tea she’d been peacefully sipping. “I got lucky,” she said. “There’s nothing especially admirable about that.”
One of the other women—a commoner by the name of Ruby, who would not have been included at a gathering of respectable ladies in any other place—snorted, though her expression was far from unkind. “Yes, it was nothing but luck. The hours you spent learning to swing a sword and defend yourself had nothing to do with it. I could have gotten just as lucky myself if I’d been attacked.” She shook her head. “I don’t know if you remember, but I attended one of your group sessions with Lord Falcor. I felt so clumsy handling the sword that I never came back.”
“I never had the courage even to attend one,” Maidel countered. “I figured I’d suffered a lifetime’s worth of mockery because of my face, and the last thing I needed was to make a fool of myself.”
Shelvon’s face was so hot with embarrassment she wondered if she was glowing like a live coal. Her eyes stung, and she feared she was about to humiliate herself by crying, which was unacceptable enough when people were being mean to you, but when they were being nice…
“We were wondering,” Maidel said, a thread of uncertainty entering her voice, “if by any chance you might be willing to teach us. We would pay for the classes, of course.”
Once again, Shelvon was stunned speechless.
“I’m sure Lord Falcor is a wonderful teacher,” Ruby put in, “but…well…” She sighed as if exasperated with herself. “Some of us find him rather intimidating.”
“And rather male,” one of her companions put in dryly.
Ruby grinned. “Yes, that, too. I felt so self-conscious during that one lesson that I couldn’t force myself to come again. But if you were teaching it…”
“I hope you aren’t offended by the idea of us paying for lessons,” Maidel said anxiously. “We argued…er, discussed it a lot before we agreed to pay. I know that for someone who was once the Queen of Aaltah it must seem…distasteful to do something that smacks of trade, but, well…”
“But in Women’s Well,” Ruby continued for her, “it is not only men who get paid for their time and effort.” She wrinkled her nose. “Besides, I’ve never understood what it is you highborn folk have against the idea of an honest day’s work.”
Shelvon blinked frantically, the tears trying harder to escape, and she saw Maidel biting her lip anxiously.
“I promise I’m not offended,” Shelvon rasped as she continued to battle the tears.
In truth, she wasn’t entirely sure what it was she felt. Embarrassed. Flattered. Proud. Terrified.
Yes. All of those, and more.
“We don’t expect you to give us an answer right this moment,” Maidel said gently.
“Honestly,” Ruby said, “we didn’t plan to ask you at all today. We were just going to try to plant the seed and see where it led.” She gave her friends a somewhat scolding look, although there was a spark of humor in her eyes. “This was supposed to be nothing but a friendly social gathering. Even if we did have an ulterior motive for down the road.”
Shelvon dabbed discreetly at the corners of her eyes. “I don’t know what to say. I…” She swallowed hard. “I’m not qualified to teach anyone. I barely know how to swing a sword myself.”
Maidel shrugged. “We don’t want to train to be soldiers. We just want…” Her voice trailed off and she frowned.
“We just want to learn how not to feel helpless,” Ruby finished for her.
Shelvon frantically reviewed the lessons Falcor had taught her, wondering how she could possibly teach what she knew to others. But of course, she could demonstrate the various strikes and guards she’d learned. And she’d done the guard drills so many times she felt reasonably certain she could show someone else how to go through them. And of course she was still taking lessons with Falcor, so her own expertise—such as it was—would continue to grow.
“Just let the idea simmer in the back of your mind,” Maidel urged. “For now, let’s just have some tea and enjoy one another’s company.”
Shelvon smiled gratefully and grabbed for her cup of tea as if it were a lifeline. But somewhere deep down inside, she knew she was going to accept the challenge. And she realized that maybe—just maybe—she had finally found her place in Women’s Well society.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Mairah paced restlessly across the length of the small anteroom, knowing she should sit down and wait in stoic dignity but incapable of doing so. One of the palace g
uards had entered the room with her, standing by the entrance and appearing to stare straight ahead, although every time she turned her back on him she could swear she felt his eyes boring into her. To say the guards who had escorted her from the Abbey to the palace treated her with a certain level of hostility was an understatement.
She had been allowed to bathe and don a clean set of robes, but the guards had no intention of waiting for her thick hair to dry. It was coiled damply around her head under her wimple, making her feel hot and sweaty and uncouth despite the bath.
The long wait, while not unexpected, frayed Mairah’s nerves until she felt ready to jump out of her skin at the slightest provocation. Convincing King Delnamal that she was well on the road to devising a cure for the Curse was likely her only chance of escaping the hellish Abbey of Aaltah. With so much riding on this one audience, it was no wonder her stomach was churning with anxiety.
Mairah had assumed this audience would take place in one of the palace’s formal receiving rooms—either that, or, if he wanted to keep the conversation more private, the king’s study—but apparently no lowly abigail was permitted to venture so deep into the palace.
The anteroom door opened so suddenly that Mairah could barely suppress a yelp of alarm, and an enormous, scowling man wearing a gold crown strode into the room.
Mairah curtsied deeply and bowed her head, hoping to keep her first impression from showing on her face. She knew that she herself was hardly a vision of loveliness, but everything about King Delnamal repulsed her. She had seen her fair share of fat men in her life, but most of them carried the extra weight with more grace than the king. His doublet strained over his middle, and his breeches were so tight they revealed every roll of fat in his legs. She wondered how he managed to sit down without splitting them open.
Worse than that was the stink of alcohol that wafted from him even when he stood more than an arm’s length away, and the sour expression on his puffy face. His eyes were small and squinty, and his lips protruded unpleasantly in what she guessed was a perpetual pout.
“Your Majesty,” she whispered in greeting, keeping her eyes lowered.
“What’s all this nonsense I hear about you having developed a spell that will reverse the Curse?” he asked, not bothering with the courtesy of a greeting, though at least he spoke in Parian so she did not have to struggle to understand. “You had better not be wasting my time or I will make you very sorry you had the gall to disturb me.”
“I would never dream of wasting Your Majesty’s time,” she said, keeping up her demure and deferential demeanor despite the surge of fury that rose in her breast. How dare this beast threaten her after all he’d already done to ruin her life? He should have welcomed her in style. Or at the very least given her comfortable transport back to Khalpar.
“My sole purpose in traveling to Women’s Well was to find a cure for the Curse,” she said. “My king made me abbess because I am the strongest spell crafter among the women of the Abbey of Khalpar, and he believed that only a woman could reverse the damage that the former Abbess of Aaltah did to the Wellspring.”
Delnamal’s lip curled in an ugly sneer. “I have no patience with boasting and preening,” he growled.
Mairah couldn’t help a small flinch at the venom in his voice, but she persevered anyway. “Forgive me, Your Majesty. I did not mean to boast. I meant merely to explain why my king sent me to Women’s Well.”
Delnamal’s sneer remained firmly in place. “And if you have succeeded in this quest set by King Khalvin, then why has the Curse not already been reversed?”
The hostility that radiated from the king convinced Mairah that her only chance at anything resembling safety was to convince him to send her back to Khalpar. The idea made something inside her shrivel, but to try to conduct her research here in Aaltah meant staying within Delnamal’s easy reach and being subject to his displeasure at the least sign that she might fail. She had not the courage to do it, even if returning to Khalpar meant abandoning all reasonable hope of winning her way back to Women’s Well. Her first priority had to be survival, and so she modified the story she’d been planning to tell him to increase the chances that he would send her home.
“I need the aid of a seer stronger than myself,” she said. “I have created a potion that will allow a seer to trigger visions of events that happened in the past. I believe a more talented seer would be able to witness the events that occurred on the night the Abbess of Aaltah cast the spell. And that once we know how the spell was cast, we will be able to to create a spell to undo it.”
To her dismay, Delnamal laughed. It reminded her of a pack of urchins she’d heard in the marketplace once as they tortured a pathetic stray cat by setting its tail on fire. A laugh that held pure malice in place of any genuine humor.
“So it is as I expected,” he said with an unpleasant gleam in his eye. “You are just one more lying whore who thinks to waste a king’s time with delusions of grandeur.”
Mairah drew herself up to her full height and risked a quick glance into the king’s eyes. She quickly looked away again, for she hadn’t the self-control to keep her hatred from showing in her expression, and she did not think letting him see what she truly thought of him was in her best interests.
“I believe that with the help of a seer, we can find a way to reverse the Curse,” she said, willing herself to sound confident and certain despite her doubt. “If you will return me to my abbey, we have several seers who may well have the talent to see how the Curse was cast, and together—”
He interrupted her with a piggish snort. “You entered my kingdom without permission and you have the unparalleled arrogance to disobey the administrator of the Abbey to send me fanciful claims of power, and you expect to be rewarded for it?”
“Of course not, Your Majesty,” she hastened to say. Her voice quavered, and she hoped he would interpret that quaver as fear rather than fury. “I seek no reward beyond the pleasure of being of service.”
“And yet you expect me to dip into the royal coffers to transport you back to Khalpar.”
“I’m sure King Khalvin would be willing to provide the transportation himself when he hears what I have learned. The Crown of Aaltah need not be troubled in any way.”
There was a long, aching silence, and Mairah all but held her breath. Surely it was a good sign that he had not already stormed out of the room. For all the accusations and skepticism, he clearly wanted her to be telling the truth.
“You are supposedly a seer,” he said suddenly. “Why can you not do the work yourself?”
“I have not the level of skill required,” she said modestly.
“That is not what your king said when he tried to justify his decision to send you to Women’s Well bearing gifts.”
Mairah squirmed, because of course she had frequently claimed a great deal more ability than she’d ever shown. It was hardly surprising that King Khalvin would have repeated the lies she’d told, but admitting to telling lies was not a good way to convince Delnamal that she was telling the truth now.
“I’m afraid he is mistaken,” Mairah said. “I am considered a talented user of women’s magic, and I suppose it was assumed that meant I was a powerful seer, as well.” She could see at once from Delnamal’s expression that he was not convinced, so she kept talking, with perhaps a hint of desperation. “You see, seers drink poison to trigger visions. The stronger the seer, the stronger the poison she can drink without dying, and the stronger and more significant the vision she will have. My own powers are not sufficiently developed for me to tolerate any but the mildest poisons, and—”
“I have no interest in hearing your excuses,” the king interrupted. “I have been told we have no seers in our abbey currently. Except you. If the Curse is to be reversed, it will happen here, not in Khalpar. So you have two choices. You can either admit you have wasted my time. Or you can drink a
poison strong enough to give you the vision you need. If your vision helps reverse the Curse, then I will send you back to Khalpar in grand style with a suitable reward. But the price you will pay for wasting my time is…severe. So will you drink that poison, or shall I consult with my inquisitor for how best to make you pay for your insolence?”
Mairah quailed, her knees going so weak she feared for a moment that she might faint like some helpless maiden.
In reality, there was no telling just how strong a poison she could swallow without dying. Her assessment of her own weakness was based on her lack of willingness to endure any but the mildest seer’s poison. Perhaps if she took a stronger seer’s poison, she would survive it and achieve exactly the kind of vision she desired. It would hurt more than she liked to imagine, but that pain and possible death would likely be quicker and easier than what Delnamal would do to her if he decided she’d wasted his time. It was impossible to look at him and not see his hunger for cruelty. He would enjoy punishing her, and nothing about him said he was the kind of man who abstained from doing what he enjoyed.
“I will drink the poison,” she said in a small, shaking voice that hardly sounded like her own.
* * *
—
Jalzarnin entered the abbess’s office and suffered an unexpected jolt of pain to find Norah sitting behind the scarred wooden desk instead of Mairah. Despite having been removed from the royal council the moment news of Mairah’s flight reached Khalpar, Jalzarnin had wheedled his way in to see the trade minister and tried to convince him to name anyone but Sister Norah to the position. Mairah would be livid if she ever found out that hateful hag had taken her place. But the trade minister, not surprisingly, was still angry that Jalzarnin had gone over his head to have Mairah made abbess in the first place, so he’d been uninterested in Jalzarnin’s suggestions. And though Khalvin had put up a protest about Mairah’s capture and detention by King Delnamal, he made it obvious just how little her fate mattered to him when he insisted she be instantly replaced as abbess.
