by Callie Bates
I’m glad my mother isn’t alive to see this.
I address them all. “The Butcher is returning to Laon tomorrow. I will meet him in Royal Square. I want the people of Laon to see me. To know I am still here, fighting for them.”
Juleane Brazeur seems to gather herself to object, but then she simply purses her lips.
“We will prepare for all eventualities,” I say, and offer a brittle smile. “Lord Devalle, please prepare me a briefing on the terms we might be able to negotiate with the emperor. When Lord Gilbert returns, he will provide a report on our defenses both by land and sea. Perhaps we can recruit more men and women to the army to bolster defenses. Mistress Brazeur, please put together a report on our financial situation. Finally,” I say, “we will declare a national period of mourning for the Caveadear. Remember, too, that I am still awaiting an official report of her death.”
The others all nod in agreement; my abrupt plan seems to have calmed them, though Victoire’s cheeks are still wet with tears. She hesitates, as if to speak, but then follows the others as they begin to disperse.
I release a shaky breath. The growing silence in the hall is deafening. Everyone heard the ministers; it will be all over the palace, and the city, in no time at all. The awfulness of it stoppers my throat.
I should go to my study, write more letters, develop a better plan.
Instead I turn to Teofila’s door.
* * *
—
IT’S HUGH WHO answers my knock, and I see the refusal in his expression even before I voice my desire to see Teofila.
“She needs to be alone,” he says softly.
I bite the inside of my lip. Alone with him, he means.
But then Teofila calls from inside the room, “Let her in!”
I start forward, and Hugh stops me with a raised hand. “She’s frantic,” he whispers warningly. “She doesn’t believe El is dead.”
“But the reports…” I press my fingers to my throat. It’s true I told the ministers we needed official confirmation, yet we still have to operate with the assumption it’s true. “We heard it from both the Butcher and Demetra.”
He just shakes his head and stands back so I can enter.
The sitting room is a cluttered disaster. Since Teofila has hardly spoken to me since that night at the Spring Caves, I’ve sent her trays of food and jugs of coffee and cocoa, and even dispatched one of the footmen to the university in search of obscure musical scores. The dishes sit in a welter on one of the tables; her maid has done nothing with them, presumably at Teofila’s insistence.
Teofila herself is crouched over a dish on the floor. It shines, apparently filled with water. Beside her, a candelabra flickers and burns. She’s whispering, “El. El.”
It takes me a moment to realize what she’s doing. I kneel beside her. “Let me ask one of the refugees to look for her by magic—”
“I should be able to see my own daughter’s body.” Despite what Hugh said, her voice is calm. Stern. She looks up at me and my heart cracks, for it’s obvious to me she’s turning her grief into denial.
“You aren’t a sorceress,” I say, as gently as I can.
“I should be,” she says, still quite reasonably. “I gave birth to one. The ability is often inherited. I’ve been reading some books Granya Knoll sent down from Dalriada about it.”
I glance at the plush blue divan, where Hugh has sat down with a sigh. It is, indeed, covered in books. Meanwhile the spinet doesn’t appear to have been opened in days. The scores I sent over sit on the bench, still wrapped in paper and a red ribbon, apparently untouched.
“I’ve been having strange dreams since I started the work,” Teofila says. “Almost like waking. I swore I stood in the hold of a ship where she was captive. It was dark, and I heard sea shanties and the creak of ropes and wood, and a girl’s frightened, ragged breathing.”
I look at Hugh, unable to suppress a lurching sense of horror. I never knew Teofila wanted to work magic, or believed she could, until a few nights ago at the Spring Caves. She’s been keeping this secret from me, though I thought I knew her better than anyone.
“Teofila…” I try again. “I’m so sorry for what’s happened to El. I can’t even put it in words.”
“You don’t need to,” she says, still quite sanely. “She isn’t dead.”
I stare again at Hugh, and again he shakes his head. There must be something we can do, some way to coax her out of this madness. But I can’t think of any words.
“You can stop looking at each other like that,” Teofila adds with a shade of irritation, and I give a guilty start. “I’m not mad. I’m El’s mother. Don’t you think I would know if my own daughter were dead?”
This is grief, I tell myself. I remember how impossible my mother’s death felt to me. How I hoped for nearly a year that they’d gotten the reports wrong and she would one day appear at Cerid Aven with her bold smile and her traveling shoes and say, Well, Sophy, are you ready to be brave?
“I never thanked you for the music, Sophy,” Teofila says all of a sudden, with a polite but distant sort of smile. “Thank you. As you can tell, I haven’t had a chance to play it just yet, but I will. You’re very thoughtful, you know.”
I blink at her. I feel about ten years old. Children are thoughtful. Queens are…
I kiss her cheek, pretending I don’t feel the pressure of tears behind my eyes, and that the baby, who I’ve always imagined as her grandchild, didn’t just jab me in the gut. Pretending her conviction that El’s alive isn’t scaring me to pieces—though it has, I suppose, distracted her from discovering the truth about the child. I don’t think she’s looked at me close enough to notice my expression, much less my pregnancy. I say, “I’ll send a seamstress over to fit you with a mourning gown. You can wear it to the procession tomorrow.”
But she’s only staring into the water again, unhearing.
I stand up. I’m trembling, and tears threaten my eyes. Hugh rises from the couch, puts his arm around my back. “It’s all right,” he murmurs. “I’ll look after her.”
Tears are blinding me. For years, it was I who looked after Teofila, and she me. We have always taken care of each other, and now it seems as if I can do nothing for her—and that, even if I could, she wouldn’t want me to.
There’s nothing to say. So I simply nod and go out.
Queens are alone.
* * *
—
I GO TO my study, the place where I can be most alone, and bolt the door. Throw myself at the mirror between the bookshelves.
“Jahan!” I scream at it. “Jahan!”
The mirror shows only my own reddened cheeks, my raw gaping mouth, my desperate, glittering eyes.
“Answer me, Jahan!” I pound on the plaster. “Answer, damn you.”
But of course there is nothing. Only my aching fists, the horrible catch in my throat, the hollowness in my gut.
I drop to my knees and cry—huge, heaving sobs. No one interrupts me, not even Charlot, or Rhia. Eventually, the tears seep to a stop and I’m left with the sodden mess of my face, and a faint flutter in my stomach, like the echo of a note struck on the piano, followed by another so faint it seems imaginary. It ceases almost immediately, and for a moment I’m overwhelmed by my own foolishness. I should see a midwife. I should’ve seen one long ago, and done what I needed to have done. The Ereni already distrust me—after today, probably more than ever. They’ll positively despise me when the truth comes to light, as it will have to, eventually.
The sensation eases. I place my hands on my stomach, though the baby is silent now. This poor child is being fed on my fear and frustration. It’s no way to grow. What kind of mother am I going to be?
I’ll be good to this child, I vow to myself, the way my mother was good to me. And I will never, ever leave her.
CHAPTER EL
EVEN
Fiona insists that I prepare carefully for the procession that will greet the Butcher at Laon’s gates. It’s important for us to appear strong without Elanna. I feel sick in the gut as I put on the black gown she had the modiste alter to my new style. So far no one has copied, or even particularly remarked upon, my gowns, though the maids seem to have realized I’ve gained weight. I heard one ask another, “Do you think she’ll get fat like Queen Loyce?”
Now the maids arrange my hair, teasing it into a soft aureole into which they nestle the royal diadem.
“You look beautiful, my lady,” one of them says, arranging a curl to fall artfully over one shoulder.
I stare at my reflection in the mirror. My eyes look drawn, pinched, and my heart is thudding dully. This is the first time the people will see me in public since the news of El’s execution. The diadem winks at me, garish. I don’t care much for the thing. It came from the Eyrlais, and when I wear it, I feel not so much like a queen as like I’ve stolen someone else’s property. Of course, the royal diadem of Caeris vanished a long time ago, melted down probably by the conquering Eyrlais. I’m not exactly in a position to commission a new one.
I take it off, startling the maids. “I’ll wear a hat.”
Rhia’s waiting for me in the hall, wearing a trim knee-length black coat edged in gold braid, her tall leather boots polished and shining. She looks exactly like my childhood picture of a pirate queen, and I notice the other women in the royal guard have found costumes almost the same. It will be as if I’m going into the city accompanied by a flock of fierce crows. Rhia’s eyes track to the small black hat I’m wearing, and she gives a short nod of approval. I’m glad I took the diadem off.
“Ready?” she says.
I swallow. “As much as I will be.”
Down in the foyer, a crowd has gathered, all of them dressed in black, as if a mourning party of crows has taken over the palace. They spill all the way out into the inner courtyard, where an open carriage drawn by four glossy horses awaits me. I sigh. The carriage is an Eyrlai relic, its gilt trimmed now with black ribbons, still too gaudy for my taste.
Demetra catches my eye. She’s standing on the edge of the crowd, looking self-conscious. We asked her to be here, along with Ciril, so the people would know we still have powerful sorcerers at our side.
“Ride with me in the carriage,” I say, taking her arm. The crowd parts around us, smooth as butter. Demetra looks sidelong at the courtiers and footmen we pass, her chin lifted guardedly. But though I tense, no one stares. They seem tired instead; worried, resigned.
We settle into the coach, Demetra adjusting the worn cuffs of her coat. I start guiltily. I should have given her something finer to wear, I realize, too late.
“Will we go out to the front now?” she asks, as an awkward silence seems ready to develop between us. “Ciril is eager to prove himself, and I want to help as much as I can.”
“We appreciate your help. The Butcher—that is”—I correct myself when she casts me a look of alarm—“Gilbert Moriens, the minister of war, is the man we’re going to welcome. He and I will decide where you can be of the most use, and then we’ll send you out.”
She nods, still looking troubled. “Why is he called the Butcher?”
“For the reasons you’re probably thinking,” I say, only somewhat sourly. “He…” He betrayed our first rebellion, all because Teofila had spurned him, and became the king of Eren’s machine of war. He gave the order that killed my mother. He killed hundreds of others, maybe not by his hand but by his orders. Yet the army seems loyal to him, and when it came down to it, he helped us win our war because El took the chance to convince him—so I have been forced to be cordial to him ever since. No one has ever asked me how much it must grate. At last, I simply say, “He is a very useful ally.”
The carriage bounces slightly. I look over with a start—Philippe Manceau is climbing in. I don’t recall inviting him.
“The ministers felt it would be best if one of us were represented,” he says, apparently reading my mind—or expression. He nods politely at Demetra. “I was volunteered.”
“Of course you were,” I say. I can just imagine who did it. Devalle and friends are clearly pursuing the image of Philippe as king—whether Philippe or I like it or not.
Captain Grenou leans over the side of the carriage. “Ready, Your Majesty?”
I check behind us. Everyone has assembled, but Teofila, of course, isn’t there. “Yes.” I turn to face the front, swallowing down my worry.
He barks an order. The carriage lurches forward. We rattle out into the city. The sky is blue and clear, and a crowd has gathered in the Royal Square. Like the rest of us, they wear black.
Bracing myself, I lift a hand to them. It’s just like any other performance, I tell myself. Yet this is the first time I’ve gone out into the city knowing El isn’t coming back. A tremor is running through my hands.
The crowd doesn’t cheer, and the ranks of black clothing hardly shift. A girl watches me solemnly from her father’s shoulders. Even the children are grieving Elanna’s death. The whole kingdom is. I taste the bitterness of guilt mingling with grief.
Philippe clears his throat. “The mood is…”
“Tense,” I say.
He looks apologetic.
The carriage stops. The crowd eddies around us and falls silent again. I force a smile at Demetra and Philippe, though I’m twisting my hands together in my lap. I’ve planned a speech, which I’ll stand up to give once the Butcher arrives. But now, as we sit waiting, the words sound hollow in my mind. False reassurances about how we’ll manage without El. A sick certainty churns in my gut. These people didn’t fight for me. Perhaps they fought, in part, for our Caerisian ideals, but Elanna was the one who stirred their imaginations. She was a legend come to life. Beside her, the rest of us are…simply human. And we’re not enough.
Rhia draws her horse up beside the carriage. She rides easily despite her broken arm, but her shoulders are tense. “Where is he?”
It’s not like the Butcher of Novarre to be late for an appointment. It worries me, though at the same time I’m relieved I don’t yet have to deal with his presence. I open my mouth to reply—but now there’s movement in the street. A troop of horsemen is pressing slowly through the crowd, toward us.
It’s time. I push myself to my feet—rising so quickly makes me light-headed, thanks to being with child—and shade my eyes. The riders have entered the square now. There’s the Butcher, as crisp as if he’s just emerged from a drawing room.
And behind him, a familiar head of spiked hair. Alistar! Despite everything, my heart soars. He’s back from Tinan—alive, safe. I press my hand to my stomach.
Murmurs rustle through the crowd. “The Butcher,” someone says. The back of my neck itches. I glance around. Deep in the crowd behind me, several men and women are staring me down with narrowed eyes. They’re commoners, well dressed. Shopkeepers, perhaps. I turn away quickly—realizing, too late, that I should have held their gazes, or even smiled back at them. The hair lifts on the back of my neck.
The Butcher is drawing closer now—close enough to smoothly dismount his horse, the epaulets on his shoulders quivering, and make his way toward me. But my gaze catches on Alistar’s wiry figure, clad in a dark coat. He’s seen me now. His eyes are tired, creased with grief, but the faintest smile tugs at his mouth.
Another murmur runs through the crowd. This time I feel it in my body, a ripple like a wave in an otherwise still lake. The Butcher puts his hand on the carriage door. I lean toward him—
“The Caveadear!” someone shouts.
“The steward of the land!”
“The Caveadear is dead!”
“The Caveadear!”
“The Caveadear!”
The square rings with her name. My head comes up. They’re mourning her, I
think at first. This is how the Ereni express their grief. Tears sting my own eyes.
Yet there’s another tone beneath the sorrow and the ache. A deep, glittering note. It’s like the sound I heard from Teofila in the Spring Caves, only this is hard, almost faceted. Like a jewel—or a weapon.
Something comes flying out of the crowd, slamming against the carriage door. We all jump. My heart surges. I lunge forward: A rotten apple lies on the cobblestones.
More things fly out of the crowd now—lettuce, a cabbage. “She gave us food!” someone screams. The guards are shouting now. A horse bucks. Philippe is on his feet, staring at someone in the crowd. Rhia screams an order, lost in the din. The whole carriage rocks as the crowd moves, shoving the guards too close.
“Get down, Your Majesty!” Lord Gilbert barks.
I stay standing. “She was my friend, too!” I shout at the crowd, a pale approximation of the speech I meant to make. My whole body is thrumming. “We all mourn her—”
Something flies into my shoulder. I’m knocked back, banging my legs on the carriage seat, a scream caught in my mouth. I scramble upright. Another damned apple.
I struggle to get back up—to try to reason with them, to try to simply make my voice heard—but Philippe throws himself on top of me, holding me down. Protecting me. I don’t need his damned protection. I struggle, trying to push him off, but he doesn’t get the hint.
“Go!” he shouts at the carriage driver. “Go!”
The Butcher’s thrown himself into the carriage. His knee connects with my leg. I struggle upright. The coach is heaving forward, rocking back. The roar of the crowd is like a physical thing, an animal that could swallow us whole. Philippe shoves me down flat on the seat, and this time I stay there.
The carriage jolts forward in a sudden burst of speed. Something hard strikes the side. Rhia screams, a feral, wordless shout, but I don’t dare lift my head. The crowd’s rage—their grief—pummels me. I’m gasping ragged breaths. The carriage thunders on. Overhead the blue sky stares down at me, serene.