The Soul of Power

by Callie Bates

  Philippe doesn’t acknowledge the departure, though the tension in his shoulders eases a fraction. He’s watching me, a line between his brows. “They didn’t harm you during the altercation, did they?”

  “No, not at all.” It dawns on me that I’m still wearing my dressing gown, and my hair is falling over my shoulders in a fury of snarls. At least the dressing gown is heavy, unbelted, its thick quilted fabric loose enough to cover my growing figure. I cross my arms over my breasts. “Thank you for your concern, but I am perfectly fine.”

  The Butcher steps forward, speaking for the first time. “And Ciril? You have put him under guard, I assume?”

  I glance at Philippe. He’s still frowning. I suppose this is another opportunity to test his trustworthiness, though I would rather tell the Butcher in confidence.

  “He’s gone,” I say baldly.

  The Butcher actually pales, and Philippe stares at me. “Gone?”

  “He seems to have stormed back through the east wing and left. No one knows where.” I look at the Butcher. “I intended to ask you if you had given him any instructions about locations, or planned to meet with him again.”

  “No.” I’ve never seen the Butcher look shaken before, but he does now. “I did not. As far as I know, there’s no possible reason for him to be out in the city.”

  I study Lord Gilbert for a moment. Ciril’s disappearance has frightened the man who spent most of his life pretending he felt less than nothing. I wonder whether it is Ciril himself—or whether, when it comes down to it, magic makes even the Butcher of Novarre uneasy.

  The Butcher clears his throat. “You have a plan for finding him, I assume?”

  I’m glad he credits me with enough intelligence to already be working on this. “Rhia found nothing in his room. We’ll have to track him.”

  He nods thoughtfully. “If Lady Rhia could bring me something with his scent on it, we could use dogs. We had best hurry, though. Time is already running out.”

  “I’ll send for some of his clothes,” Rhia says.

  “We’ll find him,” Alistar promises me, though he still hasn’t actually looked me in the face, and I flinch a little at his curt tone. He’s already following Rhia out.

  I’m alone with the Butcher and Philippe. Quietly, the Butcher says, “I don’t wish to trouble Your Majesty further, but I’ve received reports this morning from my informants in Roquelle and Marsan. After the riot yesterday here in Laon, protests flared up in both towns. No one was harmed, but…” He glances at Philippe. “People were heard shouting catchphrases. Demanding the queen be unseated from her throne. Denouncing sorcery as a great wickedness. Catchphrases,” he says, “coined by Aristide Rambaud.”

  There’s a cold twinge between my shoulder blades. The Butcher warned me about this just yesterday, but I didn’t expect the protests to spread so quickly. But like him, I wait for Philippe to speak.

  “That is a great shame,” Philippe says at last. The sound of him is taut and blue, pulsing so rapidly I feel it as a discomfort against my own skin. “The people should know Queen Sophy only has their best interests at heart.”

  “Mmm,” the Butcher says.

  I intervene before this can turn into an interrogation. “What can be done, Lord Gilbert?”

  “Nothing at the moment,” he replies, “except finding Ciril, before his disappearance adds fuel to the flames.”

  I nod, though the idea of continuing protests against me makes my skin crawl.

  The Butcher’s eyes flicker from me to Philippe. “I’ll leave you,” he says, significantly, “to fetch the dogs and their masters.”

  He strides off, and I swallow down a burning embarrassment. I don’t have time to discuss marriage with Philippe, not now. And not after what happened with Alistar yesterday.

  “I know Captain Grenou may not be entirely agreeable,” Philippe says abruptly. “But you’re wise not to antagonize Devalle—or the captain—further.”

  I look at Philippe. Worry still pinches his brow, though the hum of his tension has eased now that the Butcher is gone. It’s obvious he knows something I don’t, yet I also have the sense that he’s told me as much as he’s willing to—or as much as he safely can.

  There is, however, another matter he might be able to help me with. “I need to know about Aristide Rambaud,” I say. “If he’s inciting people to the streets, calling for me to be deposed, I have to take a stand against him. But it’s like fighting a shadow. I’ve never met him. I don’t know how to feint back.”

  Philippe’s gaze darts away, and I lean closer, gripping his arm. “I need your help, Philippe. You can’t play me for a fool—I know you know him.” I pause. “And I wager you also know where to find him.”

  His mouth tucks down. For a long moment, he simply stands, thinking. The sound of him is eluding me now, beneath my own urgency. I don’t release him. His forearm is warm under my fingers, slighter than Alistar’s. At last he says, “I’ll see what I can do.”

  * * *

  —

  TEOFILA FINDS ME soon after, as I’m walking back into the palace from the courtyard. “Any word on Ciril?”

  I shake my head. Alistar departed with Rhia, some of his Hounds, and a number of actual dogs. I’m growing increasingly agitated, wondering what’s come of them; I feel almost naked without them here. If Ciril was willing to kill a guard…It galls me that I must simply sit here waiting and wondering and worrying.

  We arrive at my chambers and Fiona emerges. She curtsies, which she ordinarily never does. I stand up straight. “Pardon me, Your Majesty,” she says, “but two young women are requesting an audience with yourself.”

  I exchange a mystified glance with Teofila; we both go into the sitting room. “Please send them in.”

  Fiona steps aside, and two young women enter the sitting room. I recognize them as, respectively, a chambermaid and the charwoman who lights the fires in my rooms every morning. The charwoman is twisting her fingers nervously in her skirt, her eyes a little too large; I can’t imagine why, since I have never been anything but polite to her. I even know the name of her pet cat, and a full list of its digestive ailments.

  The chambermaid, however, curtsies and meets my eyes with determination.

  “Hello, Estelle,” I greet her. “Dorothée.”

  The charwoman, Dorothée, bobs, as if she’s startled to be called by name.

  “What can I do for you?” I ask. Fiona is watching the two like a hawk.

  “There’s been talk belowstairs, Your Majesty,” Estelle says, with a defiant edge to her voice. “We came to ask if it’s really true, if the sorcerer who killed Thierry is on the run.”

  My heartbeat swoops into my ears. I should have expected this; of course the servants are talking.

  “We will find him,” I say with as much confidence as I can. “You and the palace staff are quite safe.”

  Estelle bobs a curtsy, and Dorothée belatedly follows suit. “Thank you, milady, but my parents live outside the city. Many of us have family in Laon and out in the country. Should we send word to them to watch out?”

  I stare. All the gods, this news is going to spread like wildfire, if it hasn’t already. If these maids are frightened enough to seek an audience, the entire palace must be in a lather.

  “Rhia Knoll and Alistar Connell are pursuing Ciril Thorley even now, and they will find him,” I say firmly. “Your families have no cause to fear. He has no reason to harm anyone.”

  Of course, he had no reason to kill a palace guard, either, but he did. And, as I suspected, my reassurance does not have much impact on the fear tightening the girls’ faces.

  “Please, Your Majesty,” Dorothée begins, rather breathlessly, “what about the other sorcerers? Will you send them out of the palace now?”

  I feel myself rooting into place. I should have known this is what they�
��d want, and fear.

  “The other sorcerers pose no threat to any of us,” I tell them, more sternly than I meant to; Dorothée winces. “They are only seeking refuge for themselves and their families, just as any of us would if our lives were threatened. Ciril acted alone. No one else would risk their current safety by harming any of us. You must understand that.”

  But judging by the looks on their faces, I’m not sure that they do.

  “We—the whole palace staff—we would all feel better if they weren’t here,” Estelle says boldly. “We don’t want to cast them out of Eren, Your Majesty. We’re not heartless. We’ve all seen the little children and how scared they must be. But do they have to live in the palace? Can’t we send them into the country, so the rest of us can sleep at night?”

  I look between the two of them, Dorothée trembling with nerves and Estelle gazing defiantly into my face. They’re protecting themselves, their friends, their families, and unlike Grenou, there’s no hate in their eyes. Only fear. They don’t understand the sorcerers, and now Ciril has given them no reason at all to trust them. Despite my frustration, I can understand why they’re afraid.

  “Perhaps it would comfort you to meet the refugees,” I say. “Talk to them. I can arrange for you all to work together. You’ll discover they’re people just like the rest of us.”

  The girls exchange a glance. Then Dorothée’s chin firms. “If you don’t send them away, lady, then we’re resigning. All of us.”

  My mouth drops open. They’re threatening me? “All of you? The entire palace staff?”

  Dorothée nods, and Estelle says, “Except me. I’m not afraid of magic or foreigners. That’s why they sent me up here.”

  I close my mouth. If I let my staff go, I’m doing right by the refugees. But then their fear will spread through Laon—out into all of Eren. I can’t afford to let my people think I’m choosing the refugees over them, or that their lives are in danger. I can’t let them think I don’t value their fears or their personal safety.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” I say at last, though it feels like capitulation.

  “Thank you, my lady!” Dorothée exclaims, obviously relieved.

  Estelle curtsies with a bright little look. She knows they succeeded in unsettling me. With a swish of her skirts, she follows Dorothée out.

  I press my hands to my cheeks. I can’t stop thinking of Demetra. Her children. The people who crossed to Eren overland from Tinan, who left behind almost everything but their lives. I pledged to help them, and there must be a way. If public sentiment is running this high, perhaps they’re safer out of the city, anyway. It would be far worse if something happened to them…

  In time, I can heal this. Perhaps those who stay can help.

  “Fiona,” I say roughly, “send for the Butcher. I need him to accompany me to the east wing.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  My gut rebels at what I’m about to do, but nevertheless I walk the long hallways back to the east wing. The Butcher, at my request, follows me. I can’t make myself even look at him. Nor can I shake the feeling that I am about to trap the refugees in a situation all of us will regret. And I’m not sure it will be enough to comfort the palace staff, or the people of Laon.

  But I don’t see what other choice I have.

  I find Demetra sitting by Marcos, packing his bruises with poultices of herbs. He’s sleeping, breathing fluttering breaths.

  “He’ll live,” Demetra says in answer to my unspoken question, a flutter of angry green sound hanging on her words. “No thanks to your brutes of guards.”

  I hesitantly sink onto a stool beside the bed. She gives me a look but doesn’t order me off. Quietly, I say, “Where do you think Ciril has gone? Lord Gilbert has said he didn’t give either of you instructions.”

  Demetra frowns and glances at the Butcher, who lingers beside the door like a particularly malevolent spaniel. “No,” she says shortly.

  I smother a frustrated sigh. I don’t blame Demetra for being angry, but it simply makes all this harder. “You said you were awake when Ciril tried to leave. Some of you witnessed what happened with the guards.”

  She nods. “The lightning strike woke most of us, as I said. I thought we were being attacked. It shook the entire building. I ordered the children to stay in the room and came running out, along with a handful of others. We all saw the fire raging in the hall and were going to offer help, but then Ciril stormed back through. And the soldiers started screaming at us. We bolted the doors to keep them and the fire out.”

  “You must have waited a long time,” I remark, “before Marcos went to see what had happened.”

  “As I told you, we heard them shouting. Fighting the fire.” She sits back from the patient and looks at me. “Finally it quieted, but we didn’t know what had happened. We were afraid for our lives. Marcos said we should try to speak with you. But when he went out…”

  “To see if they needed help,” I prompt.

  “Yes. He made us close the doors behind him. We could hear them out there, shouting insults at him. Telling him to go back where he’d come from. Screaming all the horrible things they would do to his family, and the rest of us.”

  I reach forward and grip her hand. She looks for a moment as if she’ll push me away, but then her fingers squeeze mine tightly. “I’m sorry,” I manage, “I’m so terribly sorry you had to witness that.”

  “I thought they were going to kill him,” she says flatly. “We all did.”

  I grimace. “Please tell the other refugees that I am doing my best to guarantee your safety. And I’m terribly sorry for my people’s appalling treatment of Marcos. It’s…barbaric.” I fumble for the right words, but they don’t seem like enough. I don’t know how the refugees will ever trust any Ereni again.

  Demetra seems to share my thoughts. She just presses her lips together.

  “And…” I hesitate. “Ciril didn’t have any friends among you? Anyone who might know where he’s gone?”

  “He kept very much to himself. Only the children like him, because he tells them stories.” She corrects herself: “Told them.”

  I sigh. The Butcher looks at me, obviously waiting. I swallow. It’s time.

  “Demetra,” I begin, and she looks up sharply, reading my tone. “There have been complaints from the palace staff already. I am—I’m concerned for your safety, and that of the other refugees, if you remain here.”

  She stares at me. Her breathing has quickened, but she takes a long moment before she says, “What do you mean?”

  She isn’t going to make this easy on me, but then I can’t blame her. I lean forward, bracing my elbows on my knees. I’ve decided to be forthright—especially since she is one of only three people who know my secret. “I’m afraid I don’t have the power to protect you. We’ve already suffered through one riot here in Laon. More have been happening in the countryside. Once word of Ciril’s actions gets out—not to mention the fact that he’s disappeared—there’s one obvious target. You.”

  “I see,” Demetra says. Her tone is cold, and I see in her eyes the weight of my secret. The power she could wield against me, if she chose. The revenge she could take.

  “I will do everything I can to help you.” My voice cracks a little. “Though I can only do so if I am free to act.”

  Her eyes widen slightly as she takes in my meaning. She hesitates, thinking, and the pulse speeds up in my throat. Behind me, the Butcher is surely wondering why Demetra is deliberating, but he keeps silent.

  At last, she gives a tiny shake of her head, and I realize she’s angry—both with herself and with me. “I took an oath,” she whispers. “Much though I sometimes regret it. Some matters are confidential.”

  I breathe out, unable to hide my rush of relief. Quickly, aware of the Butcher’s gaze on my back, I say, “If you are still willing to fight for us, on the
front or even here in Laon, I think I can keep you here. And if anyone else is willing to use their sorcery to aid us…”

  Demetra makes a soft, derisive noise.

  I grimace. “I didn’t think so. If you, or anyone else, is willing to stay, however, perhaps you can do more than help us fight. Perhaps you will be able to help us change how sorcery is perceived in Eren.”

  Her shoulders hitch up; she isn’t interested in glory. “What happens to the rest of us? Are we being sent from your country, then?”

  “No, not at all!” I exclaim. I force myself to meet her gaze, though guilt is constricting my chest. This woman has shown unspeakable courage and determination—as well as kindness—and look at what I am doing in return. I want to tell her I have no choice. That I don’t know what else to do. There seems no better way to protect both her people and mine.

  Yet the Butcher is watching. And though I tell myself I don’t care what he thinks, I don’t want to shoulder his derision at my womanish sentiment. So I simply say, “They will be sent to safety in the north, in Barrody. They will be far safer there than here in the capital.”

  Her jaw tightens, the angry green hum vibrating from her once more, and I think of her children. They’re so young. I can’t force her to abandon them. My stomach is knotting now, but there’s a certain approval in the Butcher’s gaze. I want to turn on him. He knows I’m forcing Demetra’s hand, and it’s wrong. He has daughters of his own, but does he feel any sympathy? I don’t think so.

  “I see.” Her glance at the Butcher tells me that she does, perhaps better than I’d wish. She speaks to me. “Of course I want my children, and my friends, to be safe. But we were supposed to be safe here. We were supposed to be protected by Eren. Will Caeris be any different?”

  I meet her eyes. “The people of Caeris have always been better friends to sorcerers than the Ereni. But…” I swallow. “These are difficult times. We will do everything we can to protect them.”

  She looks away, blinking fast. “If I remain here,” she begins, “if I—I help you…”