by Morgan Rice
“You aren’t me,” Kate said.
“You aren’t me,” the other her said, with exactly the same inflection, exactly the same voice. “You’re just a cheap copy, not half as good.”
“Give me the sword,” Kate demanded.
The other her shook her head. “I think I’ll keep it. You don’t deserve it. You’re just scum from the orphanage. No wonder things didn’t work out with Will.”
Kate ran at her then, swinging her practice blade with all the strength and fury she could muster, as though she might break apart this thing with power of her attack. Instead, she found her practice blade met by the steel of the live one.
She thrust and she cut, feinted and beat, attacking with all the skills that she’d built up through Siobhan’s brutal teaching. Kate pushed to the edges of the strength the fountain had granted her, using all the speed she possessed to try to break through her opponent’s defenses.
The other version of her parried every attack perfectly, seeming to know every move as Kate made it. When she struck back, Kate barely deflected the strokes.
“You’re not good enough,” the other version of her said. “You’ll never be good enough. You’re weak.”
The words rattled through Kate almost as much as the impact of the sword blows against her practice weapon. They hurt, and they hurt most because they were everything Kate suspected might be the truth. How many times had they said it in the House of the Unclaimed? Hadn’t Will’s friends shown her the truth of it in their practice circle?
Kate shouted her anger and attacked again.
“No control,” the other her said as she deflected the blows. “No thought. Nothing but a little girl playing at being a warrior.”
Kate’s mirror image lashed out then, and Kate felt the pain of the sword cutting across her hip. For a moment, it felt no different from the ghostly blades that had stabbed her so many times, but this time the pain didn’t fade. This time, there was blood.
“How does it feel, knowing you’re going to die?” her opponent asked.
Terrifying. It felt terrifying, because the worst part of it was that Kate knew it was true. She couldn’t hope to beat this opponent. She couldn’t even hope to survive against her. She was going to die here, in this ring of thorns.
Kate ran for the edge of it then, casting aside her wooden blade as it slowed her down. She leapt for the edge of the circle, hearing her mirror image’s laughter behind her as she threw herself at it. Kate covered her face with her hands, shutting her eyes against the thorns and hoping that it would be enough.
They tore at her as she plunged through them, tearing at her clothes and the skin beneath. Kate could feel the blood beading as the thorns ripped into her, but she forced herself through the tangle of them, only daring to open her eyes when she came out the other side.
She looked back, half convinced that her mirror image would be following, but when Kate looked, the other version of her was gone, leaving the sword sitting on its tree stump as if she had never been there.
She collapsed then, her heart hammering with the effort of all that she’d just done. She was bleeding from a dozen places now, both from thorn scratches and from the wound on her hip. She rolled to her back, staring up at the forest canopy, the pain coming in waves.
Siobhan stepped into her field of vision, looking down at her with a mixture of disappointment and pity. Kate didn’t know which was worse.
“I told you that you weren’t ready,” she said. “Are you ready to listen now?”
CHAPTER FIVE
Lady Emmeline Constance Ysalt d’Angelica, the note read, Marchioness of Sowerd and Lady of the Order of the Sash. Angelica was less impressed by the use of her full name than by the source of the note: the Dowager had summoned her for a private audience.
Oh, she hadn’t put it that way. There were phrases about being “delighted to request the pleasure of your company,” and “hoping that it should prove convenient.” Angelica knew as well as anyone that a request from the Dowager amounted to an order, even if the Assembly of Nobles made the laws.
She forced herself not to show the worry she felt as she approached the Dowager’s chambers. She didn’t check her appearance nervously or fidget unnecessarily. Angelica knew that she looked perfect, because she spent time in front of the mirror every morning with her servants, making sure that she did. She didn’t fidget because she was in perfect control of herself. Besides, what did she have to worry about? She was going to meet one old woman, not walk into a shadow cat’s den.
Angelica tried to remember that as she approached the doors to the old woman’s chambers, a servant pushing them open and announcing her.
“Milady d’Angelica!”
She should have felt safe, but the truth was that this was the queen of the kingdom, and Sebastian’s mother, and Angelica had done too much in her life to ever feel certain that she would avoid disapproval. Still, she walked forward, forcing herself to project a carefully crafted mask of confidence.
She had never had cause to be in the Dowager’s private chambers before. To be honest, they were something of a disappointment, designed with a kind of plain grandeur that was at least twenty years out of date. There was too much dark wood paneling for Angelica’s tastes, and while the gilt and silks of the rest of the palace were present in patches, it was still nowhere near the extravagance Angelica might have chosen.
“You were expecting something more elaborate, my dear?” the Dowager asked. She was seated by a window that looked out over the gardens, on a chair of dark wood and green leather. A marquetry table stood between her and another, only subtly less tall, seat. She was wearing a relatively simple day dress rather than full finery, and a circlet in place of a full crown, but there was still no doubt about the older woman’s authority.
Angelica dropped into a curtsey. A proper court curtsey, not one of the simple things a servant might have bothered with. Even in something like this, the subtle gradations of status mattered. The seconds dragged out as Angelica waited for permission to rise.
“Please join me, Angelica,” the Dowager said. “That is what you prefer to be called, isn’t it?”
“Yes, your majesty.” Angelica suspected that she knew very well what she ought to be called. She also noted that there was no corresponding suggestion of informality on the part of Sebastian’s mother.
Still, she was pleasant enough, offering a raspberry tisane from a pot that had obviously been freshly brewed and serving Angelica a slice of fruited cake with her own delicately gloved hand.
“How is your father, Angelica?” she asked. “Lord Robert was always loyal to my husband when he lived. Is his breathing still poor?”
“It benefits from the country air, your majesty,” Angelica said, thinking of the sprawling estates she was only too happy to stay away from. “Although he no longer rides to the hunt as much as he did.”
“The young men ride in the vanguard of the hunt,” the Dowager said, “while more sensible souls wait behind and take things at a pace to suit them. When I have attended hunts, it has been with a falcon, not a pack of charging hounds. They are less reckless, and they see more.”
“A fine choice, your majesty,” Angelica said.
“And your mother, does she continue to cultivate her flowers?” the Dowager asked, sipping her drink. “I have always envied her the star tulips she produces.”
“I believe she is working on a new variety, your majesty.”
“Splicing together lines, no doubt,” the Dowager mused, setting her cup down.
Angelica found herself wondering at the point of all of this. She sincerely doubted that the kingdom’s ruler had called her here just to discuss minor details of her family’s life. If she ruled, Angelica certainly wouldn’t care about something so pointless. Angelica barely paid attention when letters came from her parents’ estates.
“Am I boring you, my dear?” the Dowager asked.
“No, of course not, your majesty,” Angelica said
hurriedly. Thanks to the civil wars, the days might have gone when the kingdom’s royalty could simply imprison nobles without trial, but it still wasn’t a good idea to risk insulting them.
“Because I was under the impression that you found my family fascinating,” the Dowager continued. “My younger son in particular.”
Angelica froze, unsure what to say next. She should have guessed that a mother would notice her interest in Sebastian. Was that what this was then? A polite suggestion that she should leave him alone?
“I’m not sure what you mean,” Angelica replied, deciding that her best option was to play the part of the coy young noble girl. “Prince Sebastian is obviously very handsome, but—”
“But your attempt to sedate him and claim him for your own didn’t go as planned?” the Dowager asked, and now there was steel in her voice. “Did you think I wouldn’t hear about that little ploy?”
Now, Angelica could feel the fear inside her building. The Dowager might not simply be able to order her death, but that was what an assault like that on a royal person could mean, even with a trial of her noble peers. Maybe especially with them, since there would undoubtedly be those who wanted to set an example, or get her out of the way, or settle some score with her family.
“Your majesty—” Angelica began, but the Dowager cut her off with a single raised finger. Instead of speaking, though, she took her time draining her cup, then tossed it into the fireplace, the porcelain shattering with a crack that made Angelica think of breaking bones.
“An attack upon my son is treason,” the Dowager said. “An attempt to manipulate me, and to steal my son into marriage, is treason. Traditionally, that is rewarded by the Mask of Lead.”
Angelica’s gut clenched at the thought of it. It was a horrific punishment from another time, and not one that she’d ever seen enacted. It was said that people killed themselves just at the thought of it.
“Are you familiar with it?” the Dowager asked. “The traitor is encased in a metal mask, and molten lead is poured inside. A terrible death, but sometimes terror is useful. And, of course, it allows for a cast of their face to be taken and displayed for all to see afterwards as a reminder.”
She took something from beside her chair. It looked like just one of the many masks that were always around the court with the worship of the Masked Goddess. This one could have been the impression of a face though. A terrified, agonized face.
“Allan of Courcer decided to rise against the crown,” the Dowager said. “We hanged most of his men cleanly, but with him, we made an example. I still remember the screams. It’s funny how these things linger.”
Angelica fell from her chair to her knees almost bonelessly, looking up at the other woman.
“Please, your majesty,” she begged, because right then, begging seemed like her only option. “Please, I’ll do anything.”
“Anything?” the Dowager said. “Anything is a big word. What if I wanted you to hand over your family lands, or serve as a spy in the courts of this New Army that seems to be coming out of the continental wars? What if I decided that you should go and serve your penance in one of the Far Colonies?”
Angelica looked at that terrified death mask, and knew that there was only one answer.
“Anything, your majesty. Just please, not that.”
She hated being like this. She was one of the foremost nobles in the land, yet here and now she felt as helpless as the lowest cottar.
“What about if I wanted you to marry my son?” the Dowager asked.
Angelica stared at her blankly, the words making no sense. If the other woman had said that she was giving her a chest of gold and sending her on her way it would have made more sense than this did.
“Your majesty?”
“Don’t just kneel there opening and closing your mouth like a fish,” the other woman said. “In fact, sit back down. At least try to look like the sort of refined young lady my son should be marrying.”
Angelica forced herself back into her chair. Even so, she felt faint. “I’m not sure I understand.”
The Dowager steepled her fingers. “There is little enough to understand. I am in need of someone suitable to marry my son. You are beautiful enough, from a family of sufficient standing, well connected at court, and it seems obvious enough from your little plot that you are interested in the role. It is an arrangement that seems highly beneficial to all concerned, wouldn’t you agree?”
Angelica managed to collect herself a little. “Yes, your majesty. But—”
“It is certainly preferable to the alternatives,” the Dowager said, her finger brushing the death mask. “In every sense.”
Put like that, Angelica had no choice. “I would be happy to, your majesty.”
“Your happiness is not my primary concern,” the Dowager snapped back. “The well-being of my son and the safety of this realm are. You will not jeopardize either one, or there will be a reckoning.”
Angelica didn’t have to ask what kind of reckoning. Right then, she could feel the thread of terror running through her. She hated that. She hated this old hag who could make even something she wanted feel like a threat.
“What about Sebastian?” Angelica asked. “From what I saw at the ball, his interests are… elsewhere.”
With the red-haired girl who claimed to be from Meinhalt, but who didn’t behave like any noble Angelica had met.
“That will no longer be a problem,” the Dowager said.
“Even so, if he’s still hurt…”
The other woman fixed her with an even gaze. “Sebastian will do his duty, to both the realm and his family. He will marry who he is required to marry, and we will make it into a joyous occasion.”
“Yes, your majesty,” Angelica said, lowering her gaze demurely. Once she was married to Sebastian, perhaps she wouldn’t have to bow and scrape like this. For now, though, she behaved as she had to. “I shall write to my father at once.”
The Dowager waved that away. “I have already done so, and Robert has been delighted to accept. The arrangements for the wedding are already underway. I understand from the couriers that your mother fainted at the news, but then, she always was of a delicate disposition. I trust that it is not a trait you will pass to my grandchildren.”
She made it sound like a disease to be expunged. Angelica found herself more annoyed by the way everything had just been put in place without her knowledge. Even so, she did her best to show the gratitude she knew was expected of her.
“Thank you, your majesty,” she said. “I will strive to be the best daughter-in-law that you could hope for.”
“Just remember that becoming my daughter buys you no special favor,” the Dowager said. “You have been selected to perform a task, and you will do so to my satisfaction.”
“I will strive to make Sebastian happy,” Angelica said.
The Dowager stood. “See that you do. Make him so happy that he can think of nothing else. Make him happy enough to drive thoughts of… others from his mind. Make him happy, give him children, do all that the wife of a prince should do. If you do all that, your future will be a happy one as well.”
Angelica’s temper wouldn’t allow her to let that go. “And if I do not?”
The Dowager looked at her as if she were nothing, rather than one of the greatest nobles in the land.
“You are trying to be strong in the hopes that I will respect you as some kind of equal,” she said. “Perhaps you hope that I will see something of myself in you, Angelica. Perhaps I even do, but that is hardly a good thing. I want you to remember one thing from this moment on: I own you.”
“No, you—”
The slap wasn’t hard. It wouldn’t leave a mark that would show. It barely even stung, except in terms of Angelica’s pride. There, it burned.
“I own you as surely as if I had bought the indenture of some girl,” the Dowager repeated. “If you fail me in any way, I will destroy you for what you tried to do to my son. The only reason you are h
ere and not in a cell is because you are more useful to me like this.”
“As a wife for your son,” Angelica pointed out.
“As that, and as a distraction for him,” the Dowager replied. “You did say you would do anything. Just let me know if you have changed your mind.”
And then there would be the most horrific death Angelica could imagine.
“No, I thought not. You will be the perfect wife. You will be the perfect mother in time. You will tell me of any problems. You will obey my commands. If you fail in any of these things, the Mask of Lead will seem tame in comparison to what will happen to you.”
CHAPTER SIX
They dragged Sophia outside, pulling at her even though she was walking under her own power. She was too numb to do anything else, too weak to even think about fighting. The nuns were delivering her on her new owner’s orders. They might as well have wrapped her up like a new hat or a side of beef.
When Sophia saw the cart, then she tried to struggle, but it made no difference. It was a big, gaudy thing, painted like the wagon of some circus or troupe of players. The bars proclaimed it as what it was though: the holding wagon of a slaver.
The nuns dragged her to it and opened up the back, pulling back big bolts that couldn’t be accessed from the inside.
“A sinful thing like you deserves to be in a place like this,” one of the nuns said.
The other one laughed. “You think she’s sinful now? Give her a year or two of being used by every man with the coin for her.”
Sophia had a brief glimpse of cowering figures as the nuns threw the door open. Frightened eyes looked up at her, and she saw half a dozen other girls huddled on the hard wood. Then they shoved her inside, sending her tumbling among them with no room to gather herself.
The door slammed shut with a clang of metal on metal. The noise of the bolts was worse, proclaiming Sophia’s helplessness in a scrape of rust and iron.
