Bethral was a warrior, a tall, lovely blonde with clear blue eyes. Lovely and deadly. And clearly not happy. She frowned as Evelyn walked into her office. “I understand you fed the prisoner.”
“I did.” Evelyn walked in calmly and settled in one of the chairs. “As he did for me.” Evelyn arched an eyebrow. “They wish him to starve?”
“They wish him dead, Lady,” Bethral answered softly. “Some want him dead fast, some slow, but all want him dead.” Her blue eyes were focused on Evelyn’s eyes. “Not one voice is raised in his defense.”
“And I understand that,” Evelyn said, looking down at her hands, and at her ring. “They are justified in their hatred.”
“And yet . . .” Bethral prodded.
Evelyn looked up. “I am alive due to his mercy. I feel—”
“You are alive due to his needs,” Bethral cut her off.
“He needed you for the parley—and that is the full measure of his kindness.”
“He parleyed to save his men.” Evelyn kept her tone even. “Doesn’t that say something about him?”
“A day late and a copper short,” Bethral pointed out.
“One never knows what a copper might buy,” Evelyn replied.
Bethral flushed, and fell silent.
Evelyn sighed. “I’m sorry. I—” She paused, unsure of what to say next. Everyone had heard the tale of the rescue of Ezren Silvertongue from the clutches of the Regent and his slavers. Many had heard of the abuse he had taken at their hands, and had seen the scars he bore. But few knew that Bethral had purchased him from the slavers for a single copper coin.
“You’re a priestess,” Bethral said. “A healer. The one kind soul who should feel mercy toward the man. I can’t fault you for that.”
“His life is forfeit,” Evelyn said, “however, I can’t help but think it a waste.”
“He may have surrendered himself for nothing. Reports say that the Black Hills are awash in odium. Their legions are growing.”
“Someone is creating them.” Evelyn bit her lip. “Hard on the people left there. Is that what you wanted to talk about? Are you taking a force in?”
Bethral shook her head. “For now, the odium are staying within the borders. We don’t have men or supplies to waste trying to clean them out. First we see to our needs, and then we will deal with the Black Hills.” Bethral cleared her throat. “No, I wanted to talk about—”
The door flew open, and a young woman with brown hair, brown eyes, red leather gloves, and special armor designed to display the birthmark of the Chosen entered the room. Her eyes lit up when she saw Evelyn.
Evelyn and Bethral rose from their chairs.
“Chosen,” Bethral said.
“Aunt Evie!” With a bound, the woman enveloped Evelyn in a hug.
SEVEN
EVELYN returned the hug, then set the girl back a bit. “You are supposed to give us time to curtsy, Your Majesty.”
Gloriana tried to look contrite. “I’ll remember in public, Aunt Evie. I really will.”
Evelyn smiled at her. Gloriana was so young, with her warm brown eyes and brown hair cut shoulder-length. Evelyn had rescued her before the Regent’s forces could slay her for bearing the birthmark of the Chosen. Gloriana had been raised by Lord Auxter and Lady Arent of Soccia, with Evelyn’s help. They were not related by blood, but definitely by the heart.
Lord Auxter had been killed while gathering the support of the High Barons for their cause. Lady Arent had come to Edenrich to support Gloriana. Though Arent bore her sorrow well, Evelyn felt sure she would want to return to her home in Soccia after the coronation.
Bethral gestured them both to their chairs. “I thought you were meeting with the Chancellor, Chosen.”
Gloriana settled in the chair next to Evelyn’s. “Vembar is resting. He’s pushing himself too hard. Lady Arent said that she would check on him, to make sure he did as he was told.” She turned to Evelyn. “Isn’t there anything you can do for him?”
Evelyn sat back in her chair. “I cannot cure old age, Gloriana. But I will look in on him.”
“Thank you. We’re going to review the coronation plans tonight, and rehearse the ceremony in the throne room.” Gloriana made a face. “Vembar says that we should follow all the old traditions, but I am not sure I want oil poured on my hair.”
Bethral chuckled, and Evelyn smiled. “There’s a great deal of symbolism in the ritual, Gloriana. The anointment with holy oil is important. The one thing the Regent never dared do was take part in the ceremony and swear the oaths of the sovereign.”
“The Archbishop wants the ceremony to take place in the church.”
“No,” Bethral said firmly. “We have a hard enough task keeping you secure within the castle. There will be no procession, and the ceremony will take place in the throne room, as planned.”
“Arent found some white silk, and she’s keeping the ladies of the Court in the sunroom, sewing like madwomen.” Gloriana grinned. “They are making a design that will show off my birthmark.” She looked down at her gloves. “What would Red say to that?”
“You are Red Gloves now, child.” Bethral’s voice was firm. “And on the morrow, you will be Queen Gloriana.”
Gloriana straightened in her chair. “I know.” Her eyes were clear; her face, composed. “I have trained my entire life for this moment, and I will strive to serve my people and my kingdom.” Her face changed then, sadness flooding in. “I just miss her. Uncle Josiah went after her. Do you think they will be all right?”
Bethral and Evelyn exchanged a look, then Bethral shrugged. “Hard to say. Red is stubborn.”
“So is Josiah,” Evelyn reminded them both.
Gloriana sighed, and started to play with her hair. “I asked Arent to be on the Council, but she said no.”
“She is of Soccia,” Evelyn reminded her. “I suspect she will return there as soon as you are crowned.”
“She won’t even let me thank her publicly. But you will be on the Council, won’t you, Aunt Evie?” Gloriana asked anxiously. “Vembar will be, and Ezren Storyteller.” She looked down at the floor. “I can’t lose everyone.”
“I will gladly serve you,” Evelyn said. “As will the High Barons.”
A knock on the door, and they all turned as a guard poked his head in. “Your Majesty, the Lady Arent requests a moment of your time.”
Gloriana rose. “I will see you both tonight at the rehearsal.” She smiled, her face alight with mischief. “Aunt Evie, I have a surprise for you tomorrow.”
Evelyn raised an eyebrow. “Don’t you dare make me High Baroness of Farentell. We already talked about that.”
Gloriana laughed as she moved to the door. “No, no. Something better. You’ll see.”
As the door closed, Bethral gave Evelyn a look. “Farentell?”
“That bloodline is gone.” Evelyn sighed. “There are none who can claim that barony, so it reverts back to the Crown. Gloriana is going to have to name a new baron or baroness, and my name was mentioned. I refused it. As did Arent. Vembar suggested that Gloriana wait for a while, to try to find the best candidate, and she agreed.”
“Smart,” Bethral agreed. “Gives her time to make a good choice, and it dangles like a worm on a hook before the entire Court.”
Evelyn laughed. “You have an interesting view of Court intrigue.”
“A battle, like any other,” Bethral said as she stood and moved over to a chest against the wall. She took out a cloth sack with something heavy in it. “I wanted to ask you about these.”
She poured the spell chains onto the wooden table. The clatter caused the cat to wake, and lift its head.
Evelyn shivered, and pressed back into her chair. She remembered the feel of those things on her wrist, draining her powers. She wasn’t sure she was fully recovered from their effects, and she knew the memory of her helplessness would be with her forever.
“I’m sorry, but I have to know.” Bethral sat back down. “Would they help the Storytelle
r?”
“Contain his wild magic?” Evelyn’s eyes went wide. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
Bethral shrugged. “Mercenaries look for every advantage.” She tilted her head. “Would it work?”
“I don’t know,” Evelyn said.
Bethral picked up one of the manacles. “Did you notice that the metals are different? The manacles don’t match the chains.”
“No,” Evelyn said wryly. “I was too terrified to notice much of anything.” She looked closer. The metals were different colors, and the chains seemed smoother. She sat forward and reached out, letting one finger brush the surface of the manacle. Even the faint touch brought the sapping effect. She didn’t pull back, but instead moved her finger along the chain. But there was no effect once her skin left the manacle. “The chain doesn’t have the same effect.”
“Since High Baron Josiah left for Athelbryght, Silvertongue has managed fairly well,” Bethral said. She pulled the set toward her, and studied where the manacle and chain connected. “He’s been able to control his magic, and has stayed well away from your father.”
“Just as well,” Evelyn said dryly, “since my father thinks he should kill Ezren.”
Bethral’s eyes narrowed. “He will not.”
Evelyn opened her mouth to issue a warning, then fell silent. Bethral had stepped between her father and Ezren the last time. Never mind that her father was Marlon, High Mage of Palins and of the Mage Guild. One of the most powerful, if not the most powerful, mage in the kingdom. Evelyn didn’t blame Ezren for avoiding her father.
She’d been doing it herself.
When the Chosen had been ambushed, Ezren had somehow been invested with mage power. Not true magic—no, Ezren had been filled with wild magic, a force no one could claim to control, much less understand. The Mage Guild normally executed any mage foolish enough to try to wield that power. That is, if the wild magic didn’t turn on the mage first, and fry his flesh off his bones—and the bones of any near him.
Ezren had been essential to the Chosen’s cause. Marlon eventually agreed to allow him to live, and had even taught him some basic controls. But Marlon considered Ezren a danger, and it wouldn’t take much to convince him to change his decision. Evelyn didn’t blame Ezren for avoiding her father.
Evelyn’s reason for avoiding the man was simple. She just didn’t want to argue with him.
“Could they hurt the Storyteller?” Bethral asked.
Pulled from her thoughts, Evelyn gave her a blank look.
“The chains,” Bethral prompted.
“I really don’t know,” Evelyn said. “Wild magic is not predictable.” She gave Bethral a skeptical look. “Will he even agree to wear chains again? You know how badly his wrists are scarred.”
Bethral looked away. “Ezren Storyteller is deeply involved with the plans for the coronation. There hasn’t been a moment he could spare to speak with me.”
“Ah.” Evelyn sighed inwardly. Something had happened between those two, something during the ambush. They weren’t talking. She didn’t know what or how, and hadn’t had time to pry, but—
“I wouldn’t blame him if he refused them in their current state,” Bethral continued. “But Onza is here in the castle.”
“Auxter’s mage-smith?” Evelyn considered that fact. “He’s one of the few who could modify the chains without destroying their power.”
“Then I’ll have him use the castle forge to strike the chains,” Bethral said. “If the manacles are still empowered—”
“I’ll give them to Ezren tonight”—Evelyn rose—“before the rehearsal.”
“Don’t mention my name.” Bethral rose as well. “He’ll refuse them if you do.”
“Very well,” Evelyn said. She’d see what she could do about their relationship after the coronation. She walked to the door, then paused. “Bethral . . . the execution tomorrow. Who—”
Bethral gave her a long, steady look for a moment, then spoke. “By my hand, Lady High Priestess. I’ve a block prepared, and a sharp axe. I’ll make it quick and clean, I promise.”
Evelyn’s mouth went dry, but she managed a nod of thanks as she went out the door.
VEMBAR of Edenrich, the Queen’s Chancellor, wiggled his toes under the bedding and enjoyed the heat of the warming stone the servants had tucked in at the foot of the bed. He leaned back against the thick pillows, and tried very hard to resent that he’d been told to rest.
The truth was, he needed a respite. That was the worst part of growing old, losing one’s strength of body. Not of will, though. Certainly not of will. He pulled his hands from beneath the blankets and looked at them in the firelight. How had they grown so weathered? Wrinkled, spotted, stiff—when had they lost their strength?
Still, though he was old, he wasn’t dead yet. And on the morrow, Gloriana, his beloved student, would take the throne as the Chosen of Palins. And he’d serve her as long as there was breath in his body. Vembar took a deep breath. He’d a few years left. And there was so much to do to put the kingdom right again.
So much that was wrong. Here in the quiet of his room, he could see clearly the problems that would soon have to be dealt with. The release and restoration of the slaves. The need to secure the food supply, the need to get able-bodied men and women into the fields, to restore their prosperity. Farentell had to be rebuilt, and then there was the problem of the Black Hills.
Vembar had seen the reports that the odium were ravaging the countryside. They would be hard pressed to—
He sighed, took a deep breath, and tried to relax. He was supposed to be resting, not worrying himself into a knot. Time enough to work. This night and the next day should be focused on Gloriana. Already the vultures of the Court were circling, looking for ways to insinuate themselves into her councils and favor. He’d have to keep an eye on the Archbishop especially.
The door of his chamber opened, and Lady Arent entered. He smiled at his old friend
“I thought I’d come to see if you are doing as you should. I’m glad to see you are resting,” Arent said.
“Escaping the fervor, more like.” He gestured to a straight chair by the bed. “Sit and talk to me.”
She left the door ajar, as was proper, and came to sit beside him. The firelight reflected on the angles of her face, made much starker by her hair being pulled back in a tight bun. He’d known her for years, her and Auxter. Though many might see severity, Vembar knew her better than that. He could see her pain. “How go the preparations?”
Arent grimaced as she sat. “I set every one of the Court ladies to sewing a dress for Gloriana. Keep them busy. But there is only so much twittering I can tolerate.”
Vembar chuckled. “Has the bickering started yet?”
“Oh, yes.” Arent rolled her eyes. “They’re all trying to figure out ranks and family honor for the procession and harassing the Herald. Thank the Lord and the Lady I’m not involved with that decision.”
“Tired?” Vembar asked gently.
Arent said nothing. She dropped her gaze to her lap.
“Gloriana said she’d offered a royal funeral for Auxter, after the coronation. She said that you declined the honor.”
“So many died.” Arent didn’t look up. “It doesn’t seem right to honor him over the other dead. Besides, he would have hated the idea.”
“I think you are right,” Vembar murmured. He paused for a moment, waiting.
There was a soft hitch in Arent’s breath.
“It’s quiet in here,” Vembar continued softly. “It’s dark and warm, and there is no one about. Tell me the truth, Arent.”
She didn’t lift her head. “My head knows he’s gone, Vembar. But my heart . . . I keep thinking he’s back at the farm, training the warriors down by the forge. When I return, he will want all the details. . . .” Her voice trailed off, and then she looked up at him with tear-filled eyes.
Vembar pushed back the thick blankets and swung his legs over the side of the bed. It took a moment to stan
d and pull down his nightshirt, but he managed it.
“Vembar,” Arent began to scold, but Vembar held up a hand. He walked slowly to the door, and managed to grasp the handle without leaning on the damn thing.
He looked out at his guardians. “The Lady Arent and I are going to speak privately. We are not to be disturbed.” He saw them nod in response as he shut the door and secured the lock.
“Vembar”—Arent moved to his side and offered her arm—“what will they think?”
He took her arm, and let her guide him back to the bed. He sat with a sigh of relief, then pulled on her arm until she sat next to him.
“With any luck, they will think we are making mad, passionate love.” Vembar smiled at her.
Arent looked at him, her eyes wide with surprise.
Vembar raised his eyebrows, planted his feet on the floor, and pushed. The bed frame rocked back, gently squeaking.
Arent clapped a hand over her mouth, smothering her laugh.
Vembar waggled his eyebrows, and let the bed ease back so it creaked again. “It would help if you’d moan a little.”
Arent’s body shook as she sat there. But then, as he’d known it would, the laughter turned to sobs. He put his arms around her shoulders as she buried her head in his chest and clung to him like a child.
Grief rose in his own throat. He held her, and said nothing. There was nothing to say, no words he knew that would ease the grief. She’d weep, and then the needs of the day would press in, and she’d dry her eyes and see to them.
But for now, he’d offer what comfort he could. He held her close and let her cry.
EIGHT
ORRIN thought it fairly sparse, as royal coronations go.
He’d half expected to be dragged through the streets behind the Chosen as the last living enemy of the victor. Instead, they’d brought him down to the throne room fairly early, and secured him in an antechamber. The double doors were open wide, giving him and his four guards a prime view of the ceremony.
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