The Soul of Power

by Callie Bates

  The cobblestones change to flagstones. I pull myself up on my elbows; Philippe has finally moved off. We’ve made it back through the palace gates, but the roar of the crowd is pursuing us. I glance back. People pour through the gates, behind the soldiers, an angry black river.

  We’ll never get the gates closed—not that I have ever wanted to keep the people out. Not before this.

  The walls of the palace lurch up around us. The carriage slams to a stop—the horses whinny—and Philippe grabs my arm.

  “Hurry,” the Butcher orders.

  I’m already on my feet, throwing myself out the carriage door, running for the palace’s colonnade. I’ll run through, to the upper balcony. They’ll all be able to see me from there. Perhaps I can gather enough breath to make myself heard. Perhaps they’ll stop, and listen.

  My mountain women surround me, Rhia and the Butcher both snapping orders. I pause, panting, in the marble foyer. I’ve lost my hat. My hair is falling down. Behind us, on the landing outside the colonnade, the palace guard is closing into a solid formation. But the thunder of the crowd still bellows overhead.

  Demetra tumbles past the guards, her eyes enormous. Terrified.

  I straighten, and the marble seems to tilt. That’s not right. I shake my head, but it only tilts more. I’m breathing so fast I can hardly speak; my whole body is vibrating. “I need to—address them—”

  “No!” Rhia and the Butcher exclaim simultaneously.

  “You need to be kept safe,” the Butcher says. “I’ll take care of this.”

  I shake my head, and heat strobes through my temples. The floor wobbles. I remind myself, as I did yesterday, that this is not about me. I need to be strong for my people. I whisper, “So you’ll kill them all?”

  Philippe’s head jerks toward me.

  The Butcher’s lips thin, and also fade in and out of focus. I try to concentrate, but my pulse is beating too fast, a staccato all over my body. “There will be no bloodshed, Your Majesty.” Even his words seem to blur. He’s gesturing to Rhia.

  She grabs my arm. I throw her off. Stumble. “I need to…” I have to grasp for the words. “Speak to them! I am…the mother of the people—”

  “You are a foolish girl!” the Butcher exclaims.

  I swing to face him, and black spots bloom in my eyes. “I am—I am—”

  Heat rushes over me.

  I’m not aware of falling. The next thing I know, I’m being carried up the staircase, held in a pair of warm arms. “Alistar?” I mumble.

  “No,” Philippe says shortly.

  Then the heat breathes over me again. I blink. He’s setting me down on my monstrosity of a bed, and Demetra is leaning over me from the other side, a frown between her brows. I realize that I fainted—fainted in front of the Butcher of Novarre and Rhia Knoll and so many others—

  And Demetra is holding my wrist, feeling my pulse. She’s going to examine me.

  She’ll find out.

  “No!” I yank my arm away, but she expertly grabs me back. “I don’t want an examination!”

  “You just fainted,” Philippe snaps. “You need to be looked over.”

  Demetra’s eyes have narrowed. Does she suspect? “Lie back.”

  I grind my teeth together. The world is still pulsing warmly, but I don’t lie down.

  “Lie back. You had a terrible fright, that’s all.” The cynical twist of her mouth belies the truth of this statement. “The servants can bring something cool to drink—”

  “Sophy?”

  It’s Teofila. My heart pounds again, so fast I think I’ll pass out a second time. She rushes in from the other room, pushing Philippe aside. Glances worriedly at Demetra. “What happened?”

  “It was an apple,” I mumble, “that’s all.” I feel exhausted. Heat sweeps over me again, and this time I lie back on my pillows. My pulse hums through my entire body.

  Teofila is looking at Philippe now. “Someone in the crowd must have planned a riot,” he’s saying. “It turned to chaos. The Butcher and Rhia Knoll are locking down the palace.”

  I close my eyes. The roar of the crowd is still humming inside my skin, a counterpoint to the hot flush of my own body. They’re still out there.

  “I should get up,” I whisper.

  Three people push me back down.

  “Philippe,” Teofila says, “get us a report, would you?” She looks at Demetra. “You must have family you’re worried about in the east wing.”

  I blink foggily at Teofila. She’s commanding. In control. Utterly sane. How on earth does she even know about the refugees in the east wing? She’s seemed utterly oblivious to everything, even though she came here to translate for them.

  Demetra glances at me. “I can’t leave her…”

  “You can,” Teofila asserts. “Tell me what to do, and I’ll look after her. I’ve done so these last thirteen years. I’m not about to stop now.”

  * * *

  —

  DEMETRA ORDERED ME to rest, but though I’m propped up on down bolsters and swaddled in blankets, lying here is hardly restful. People keep rushing in and out—first Philippe, then Rhia, who assures me that none of the rioters have actually broken into the palace or tussled with the guards. “They’re still shouting out there,” she says with a small frown, as if it’s only striking her now how strange it is to be the ones shouted at, not those doing the shouting.

  Teofila passes me a cup of tisane without comment.

  There’s a thump at the door, and the Butcher enters. He looks, for once, out of breath, flustered. He scarcely even glances at Teofila, or at Philippe or Rhia, who’s glowering at him. “They’re starting to break up, Your Majesty. We’re handing out bread.”

  I blink. “Bread?”

  He nods. “They’re claiming the Caveadear fed them, and we won’t.”

  I chew on my lower lip. “Was anyone hurt?”

  “Not seriously, so far as we saw. The guards are shaken.”

  Teofila glances at him. “I’d say we all are.”

  He acknowledges that with a twist of his lips.

  “Where’s Alistar?” I ask. I can’t believe he hasn’t come to find me yet.

  “Lord Connell is securing the palace entrances,” the Butcher says with a dark look. “Your Majesty, we need to talk.” He pauses. “Privately.”

  “Privately?” I can’t conceal the alarm pitching my voice too high. No matter what Elanna says about him, no matter that I need his help, I’m not glad to see the Butcher, and I certainly don’t want to talk to him alone.

  His glance cuts toward Philippe—and Philippe’s mouth sets in recognition.

  Teofila intervenes. “Lord Philippe, help me see that the palace staff has remained calm, since Sophy can’t speak with them herself.”

  Philippe gives the Butcher a hard look, but he nods. “Call if you need anything, Lady Sophy.”

  I manage a smile. They go, and a lump hardens in my throat.

  The Butcher still doesn’t speak. With a sigh, I look at Rhia. Her shoulders are taut. She says to the Butcher, “At least tell me if my father is well.”

  He puts one arm behind his back like a punctilious secretary. “The warden of the mountains is still on the front, maintaining our defenses.”

  “I see.” Rhia nods, but I know her well enough to recognize the disappointment tightening her lips. “Is he well?”

  “Hale as a mountain wolf, and still talking of prophecies foretold,” the Butcher says with genteel disapproval.

  Rhia closes her eyes. “Thank you.” She shoots me a warning look—a warning to call should I need her—and retreats.

  The Butcher shakes his head. “Mountain folk.”

  “They’ve helped keep our defenses together on the border,” I point out.

  “Indeed. One can’t fault them for their
ferocity, except when they devolve into squabbles over honor.” He lifts his eyes to the ceiling. “Is the girl certain to succeed Knoll?”

  “If you mean Rhia, she’s a year my elder, and I would hardly consider her a girl. And no. The mountain lords maintain lively elections. Rhia would have to make a strong case.” Which I imagine she would—if she wanted to put her mind to it. I’ve never been sure, though, if it’s what she really wants. I can’t quite comprehend the reluctance, personally. She’s too clever to remain the captain of my queen’s guard forever.

  The Butcher pulls up a stool and sinks onto it, rubbing his hand over his chin. For the first time, he looks almost human to me—tired, sore. Worried. He looks at me. “The mountain lords make up perhaps an eighth of the overall population, do they not? Yet under the tripartite rule, one of them will always be a third of the kingdom’s government.”

  This is so far from what I expected him to say that I simply stare. “I suppose, Lord Gilbert.”

  “The government of Caeris,” he explains patiently, “is divided among the Caveadear, the monarch, and the warden of the mountains. A reasonable enough balance in Caeris, where two-thirds of the population live in the lowlands, thus represented by the monarch and Caveadear, and the remaining third in the mountains. But this does not take into account the government of Eren—which in addition to being larger and indeed wealthier than Caeris, has no representation at all.”

  “It has…” I stop. It had Elanna. And now she’s gone. But that’s still no reason for the Butcher to criticize our government—as if he had any genuine interest in its formation. Carefully, I say, “Does this have something to do with the riot? Now that El’s gone…”

  I almost choke on the words. I won’t say what I’m questioning, not to the Butcher of Novarre—what this means for not only the kingdom’s future, but my own.

  But I know the answer well enough, though I shrink from admitting it.

  “Oh, that.” He flaps his hand toward the distant city. “That was a true riot. They’re upset Elanna’s been executed.” He pauses, and a shadow passes over his face. I wonder if even he feels some measure of grief, but then I remind myself that this is the man who burned an entire village in Caeris to the ground. The Butcher might have liked Elanna, as much as he can like anyone, but he won’t let that cloud his thinking.

  “No, Your Majesty,” he says at last, “the riot in itself does not concern me.”

  I utter a strangled sound. A riot doesn’t concern him?

  “What worries me,” he says, “is how some people might take advantage of emotions running so high.”

  “And that’s why you asked me about tripartite rule?” It seems so irrelevant, I can’t withhold my own sarcasm.

  Without a word, he digs in the pocket of his military jacket and produces a crumpled piece of paper. He hands it to me. I smooth it out and flinch. It’s a pamphlet—with my face on the front, garish in a woodblock print. I’m wearing the Eyrlai diadem, and my face is fat and bovine.

  Beneath this flattering portrait is written, THE BASTARD QUEEN.

  “Are you all right?” the Butcher asks.

  I’m breathing too fast through my nose. I feel flushed all over, again. With an effort, I gather myself; the Butcher’s concern is the last thing I care to receive. “Yes.”

  “Perhaps you shouldn’t read the text…”

  But it’s too late; my eyes have already dragged down to the elaborate script below. Tripartite rule is the rule of greed! Caeris has conquered Eren. Sophy Dunbarron is a sow who has placed herself on the throne. Does this seem equitable to you?

  “Who did this?” I say quietly, at last. The pamphlet is unmarked.

  The Butcher doesn’t answer immediately. Instead he says, “It is understandable that the Ereni feel they are not represented in the government of their kingdom. They are ruled by Caerisians. They want a voice.”

  “They have a voice.” My vehemence takes even me aback. “We defeated the Eyrlais on the promise that everyone would have a voice. That’s why we set up the local assemblies, the councils, the elections. That’s why I hold public audiences. They know they only have to speak to me.”

  “Would you change the tripartite rule if they asked?”

  I say nothing. I want to scream so badly I don’t trust my own voice. My own people are protesting against me, issuing mockeries of me, mere months after I took the throne.

  Part of me wants to scream at him, at them. Tell them they’re wrong, that they don’t understand.

  The other part wants to disappear, quietly, without fuss. Back to Caeris, perhaps even to another country. Somewhere I won’t be recognized; where I could live without the reminder of my own failure.

  A small voice in my head whispers, Ruadan never said it would be like this. Months ago, we were the protestors.

  “The people wanted us,” I say finally. “We had popular support in Eren.”

  “You still do. But the people are afraid. The Caveadear’s dead, and even if the Tinani have withdrawn, your subjects aren’t fools. They know Tinan is still a threat, and Baedon, and most of all Paladis.”

  It’s exactly what he warned me would happen, and having it rubbed in my face isn’t exactly heartwarming. I clench my hands together. If he thinks he could have done better, let him try.

  “The price of bread is going up,” he says. “We have no trade, no access to so many common goods. People are growing desperate.”

  “And they blame me,” I say quietly. “Even though I’ve sworn to keep them safe.”

  “Well.” He studies me and nods to himself, almost satisfied. As if he’s pleased he’s succeeded in scaring the wits out of me. “Here is what I think has happened. I fully expected fear might turn some people against us, that people would be profoundly distraught over Elanna’s death, but I did not expect them to use the argument about tripartite rule. The protests about sorcery, yes, and the lack of food and goods and feeling unsafe. But not that, not yet.”

  I eye him. I have the feeling that, even though he’s illustrating how desperate our situation is, he’s obscurely taking pleasure in being right. It makes my nostrils flare.

  “Someone is working to undermine us,” I say flatly.

  He nods like a teacher, pleased I’ve followed his line of thought, and I grind my teeth. I was taught by Ruadan Valtai; I don’t need the Butcher of Novarre’s approbation. “You’re aware, I suspect, that some of your own ministers care very little for you and Caeris.”

  “It would be hard to miss.”

  “Indeed. There’s more to it, though, which I didn’t expect. Someone is out in the country, rallying people against you. Someone who wants the very foundation of your government to be suspect. There will be more protests—more riots.”

  My mouth goes dry. “The way we did—printing pamphlets, staging protests.”

  “Exactly.” His lips quirk. “Ironic, isn’t it? I suspect this is the individual who arranged for the murder of that sorcerer in Ichou.”

  “Why are you so convinced there’s only one person behind it? It sounds like a…a movement.”

  Which depresses me so profoundly, my mind feels numb.

  “Duke Ruadan started a movement in the same way, with a little money and influence.”

  “I see.” Wretchedly, I do, only too well. “So do you have any idea who it is?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty. It’s a man many of us know—those who spent time in the Eyrlai court, that is. A man most Ereni know by name, whose wealth was even greater than the king’s.” He looks at me. “You may know his name, too. Aristide Rambaud, the Duke of Essez.”

  I draw in a shaking breath. So it’s him—this mysterious duke whom everyone but me seems to know. An ally of the king of Tinan, a man with almost as many lands to his name as the former royal family had.

  “He has already been heard to say
you must be cast off your throne,” the Butcher says, watching me. “I have at least two informants on him at all times. He’s made speeches in town squares calling for you to be deposed. He has named sorcery as vile, anathema—an evil cancer that must be cut out of Eren.”

  I flinch.

  “Soon there will be more protests, and the people of Eren will be calling for the same things. Sorcerers are already considered wicked by some. Rambaud is taking care to exploit that.”

  “Then we must counter him,” I begin.

  The Butcher interrupts me. “Majesty, we need to strike fast and strike hard. We need to make changes and we need to remove these pamphlets.” He pauses. “We need to put Rambaud down.”

  “Put him down?” I stare at him, repulsed. “You mean assassinate him?”

  “It might be difficult,” he concedes. “Though I’m sure I can deduce his location.”

  My mind is reeling. The Butcher doesn’t only want to “put Rambaud down”—he wants to destroy the pamphlets. Though I’d love to never see this caricature again, that’s censorship. It’s exactly what the Eyrlais did to us. Not surprising, I suppose, since he worked for the Eyrlai king and queen.

  “I won’t do that,” I say at last. “I won’t behave like Antoine Eyrlai.”

  He lifts a skeptical brow. “Then how do you propose to keep Rambaud from turning the people against you?”

  My mind is spinning, spinning. “It’s simple,” I say with a confidence I don’t feel. “I will make the Ereni love me.”

  “How?”

  “I’ll show them that I love them.” I pause. How, indeed? The people are hungry, but I can’t make wheat sprout from the fields, like Elanna. I have already granted them access to the royal granaries. And no matter how helpful, these are still only gestures. Somehow I must prove to them that I value my Ereni subjects as much as my Caerisians. Somehow I must make myself like Elanna: not only Caerisian, but Ereni as well.

  The answer is obvious, but I can’t say it. I see Alistar in the crowd, looking at me with that small, familiar smile. I see Lord Devalle looking so significantly at Philippe Manceau. I feel the flutter of the baby in my belly.