by Callie Bates
Philippe takes my arm, and I let him. We move back through the elaborate house, passing Devalle’s wife without greeting her. By the time we reach the garden, my tipsiness is draining into a cold horror. Then we’re outside, passing through the darkened city, back to the palace, climbing through the cold secret corridor to my study.
When we finally emerge into the dim chamber, I’m vibrating with anger. There’s so much to be angry over, but one thing sticks in my gut. I throw off my hat and whirl on Philippe.
“Who?” I demand. “Who are they replacing me with? Him?”
He doesn’t immediately answer. His gaze lowers.
“Tell me, Philippe,” I say, “who is the true king? Is it Euan Dromahair? Is it you? I presume that’s what they all want: your mother, Devalle, Rambaud…”
“No—” He gives a quick shake of his head. “That was before.”
“Before what?”
He looks at me. “Before I told them no.”
I look at him and then, despite all of it, I laugh. “So we’re both replaceable.”
He grimaces. “It would seem so.”
There’s a bitterness to him; he’s not comfortable among those people, doesn’t like them, even though he grew up with them. Slowly, I say, “But you were their first choice.”
He won’t look at me.
“It’s all right, Philippe.” I draw in a breath. “Perhaps there’s a way we can beat them at their own game. If we were to marry, for instance.”
His gaze jerks up to mine. There’s no horror in it, as I half feared, but no hope, either. He looks genuinely shocked. Slowly, he says, “How exactly would that be besting them at their own game?”
I hesitate, then decide to tell him. “I’ve just received news that the Caveadear is alive.”
Philippe stares.
“But she can’t get out of Ida,” I continue. “We’re in a difficult place, even though she lives, and even though the emperor’s fleet has been destroyed.”
“Destroyed?” He looks even more astonished.
I nod, without admitting to how I’ve come by this knowledge. “I need to take people’s minds off their fear. I need to give them something to look forward to.”
Philippe’s eyebrows have hitched up. “I see.”
I utter a self-conscious noise that can’t quite be called a laugh. “I didn’t think I was such a terrible prospect as all that.”
I wait, but he just rubs the flat of his palm over his forehead. The whole sound of him has muted.
“It seems I’ve miscalculated,” I say, my face hot. “Please forget what I said.”
He looks at me and sighs. “You’re not in love with me.”
“Is that a requirement for a royal marriage? I haven’t been given to think so.”
“I’m a romantic,” he says flatly. “I don’t believe anyone should marry where there isn’t at least affection between the two. Desire. Not political expediency. Not a wedding to distract the people from their own fear, to try to prove you’re one of our people, as if I can somehow give you the credibility you haven’t earned.”
I feel myself freezing into place.
“And then there is the matter of…” He draws in a breath. “Alistar Connell.”
“What about Alistar?” I say coldly.
“You’ve been dallying with him since before you took the throne!” he exclaims. “You’re with child by him if the gossips can be believed! The entire kingdom will soon know of it. What do you plan to do—keep him on the side, or remove him? Removing him would damage your relations with Caerisians; they’d think you’ve gone Ereni. But no husband would want you keeping him.”
I pull away from him; I can feel my nostrils flaring with anger. “That is enough.”
“You want me to marry you,” he shoots back. “You treasure honesty, so I’m giving you my honest opinion. Or at least, you think you want me to marry you.” He looks at me. “Perhaps the truth is that you don’t want to marry at all.”
“I do what I must for the good of my kingdom,” I retort.
“Then marry someone who doesn’t care what your motives are, or what you do behind his back.”
His hands are on his hips. He’s glaring, and so am I.
“I would never live with Alistar while I was married to someone else,” I say furiously.
“Why not? Other people in your situation do it. Loyce did it.”
“I am not Loyce Eyrlai!”
His mouth tightens. “No, you’re not. You’re the one who threw her off her throne. You shouldn’t be trying to live the way she did, feel like you need to make the same moves she made. You claimed this kingdom. You can write your own rules.”
I look at him. “And here I thought there was a chance you’d say yes.”
“You don’t want to be sold off like a prize cow,” he says, “and neither do I.”
Without another word, he strides away, slamming the study door behind him. I stay where I am for a moment, leaning against the bookshelf. Absurdly, ironically, I miss Alistar more than I ever have. I want his steady arms around me, and the smell of him, and his breath against my cheek when he tells me he will hold me forever.
But he isn’t here, because I’ve pushed him away, too. I feel entirely alone.
I open the door with a sigh. I’ve been gone more than two hours, and the guards will be worried by now. But when I emerge into the hall, neither of them even react. I turn to stare at them.
“I’m sorry, Your Majesty.” Kenna is swaying and her face is gray, her voice ragged.
“You’re ill!” I exclaim. “You shouldn’t be on duty.”
She shakes her head. “No one else can work, my lady.”
I stare from her to the other guard, Moyra. Her skin is pale and sweating, and her eyes have a glassy look. She barely acknowledges my gaze. All the gods, I hope I don’t get ill as well—though I haven’t noticed anyone else taking sick.
“You’re both ill,” I say, stating the obvious. “Did you eat anything suspicious? Why isn’t someone filling in for you?”
“Because everyone is ill, Majesty,” Kenna says wretchedly. “All the queen’s guards. Isley came down with it yesterday morning, vomiting and feverish, and now we’ve all got it.”
“All of you?” I certainly don’t want to expose myself to them, in that case. Although if they’ve all got it…“Are you certain you didn’t eat something? Do I need to have someone test your food?”
They exchange a confused glance, and Kenna says, “We all ate the same thing.”
“I was feeling all right this morning,” Moyra mumbles. “I swore I was fighting it off.”
“You should both be in bed!” I say. Perhaps it’s simply influenza. “You could be getting the rest of the palace sick with whatever you’ve got.”
“But then you would have no guards, Your Majesty.”
I mentally curse. It’s long past five o’clock, and I’m sure Grenou has returned to duty, as I promised Lord Devalle he would. “No, I do. I have Captain Grenou and his palace guards.”
Kenna draws herself up. “They can’t guard your private chambers.”
“They’ll have to,” I say, though it galls me to rely on Grenou for anything. Over Kenna’s protest, I say, “It’s only one night, or two at the most.”
“But my lady—”
I gesture for them to be silent, and call for a footman. “Send for Captain Grenou!”
He bows and hurries off, and I let the women follow me back to my chambers.
“As soon as he arrives, you must go to your own rooms and rest!” I tell them both sternly. “I’ll have the kitchen send you up extra soup and tisane. You should have told me at once!”
“You have so much on your mind, my lady,” Kenna says, almost apologetically. “You said we shouldn’t disturb you.”
Perhaps, if I’d had any common sense, I would never have gone with Philippe in the first place. I look at her. “Maybe, but the first thing I should know is whether or not my guards are at their best. You must take care of yourselves. You’re not putting only yourselves at risk by not doing so.”
The words have their intended effect. Moyra gasps, and Kenna presses her hand to her heart. “We would never expose you to greater risk!”
“Yet that is exactly what you have done today,” I say severely. “And if Rhia were here, she would agree. She would also see you stay in your beds until you are fully recovered.” I pause outside my rooms. “Now, as soon as Grenou arrives with his men, you are to go. Understood?”
They both nod, thoroughly chastised.
“Rhia should be back in the morning,” I add. “She’ll see to everything.”
I go into my chamber—it’s empty even of maids—and drop onto the bed. My eyes throb with exhaustion. It’s been such a strange day. I should rise and go to Teofila’s rooms, tell her that Elanna is alive. But it’s late, and she’s probably asleep by now. It will wait until morning.
There’s a scratch at the door. I heave myself up. It’s Captain Grenou, crisp in his uniform, the sound of him humming with a low buzz that seems a lot like satisfaction.
“I’ve stationed two guards at each door,” he says self-importantly, “but please permit me to remain inside your chambers tonight.”
A thread of unease runs up my spine. Surely Grenou doesn’t have anything to do with my royal guards’ illness—does he?
“You shall hardly know I’m here,” he promises. “It’s the safest arrangement.”
Of course, I let the mountain women stand guard within my rooms at night—but there is a vast difference between them and Captain Grenou. I study Grenou’s face, trying to detect anything to substantiate the distrust I feel, but he simply projects a professional concern. Even the sound of him is brisk and businesslike. I tell myself I’m simply reading into the situation because I dislike him, nothing more.
“You may station yourself in the sitting room,” I decide at last. The passage between the sitting room and my bedchamber is deep, with a small bathing chamber and a linen closet opening off either side. It will offer some privacy.
The captain lifts an eyebrow. “But you do not sleep in the sitting room, madam.”
“I will leave the door open. If someone attacks me in the middle of the night,” I say drily, “you will hear me scream.”
He bows and retreats toward the wall.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
I fall asleep singing to the baby, and wake curled on my side, with the certainty that something woke me. I was dreaming that I was at Cerid Aven, in my comfortable bed surrounded by floral curtains. I heard music—the twining, breathy melody of a flute—and I rose and walked out of the house, determined to find the player. Only when I emerged outside, a woman was moving away from me, over the soft moss beneath the oaks, the light catching in her golden hair, the deep blue of her gown. I called after her, but she seemed not to hear. She kept on, releasing notes on the flute.
Then, behind me, someone cried my name. I turned and saw a girl on the house’s back steps. A slight child, perhaps eight years old, with my own reddish-gold hair and Alistar’s black eyes.
She uttered my name again, but this time it did not emerge in words. It came out as a glowing sound—a deep and brilliant purple note that shivered through every part of me. The sound most like my own self.
Now something creaks again in the room, and I startle out of the remnants of the dream. It must be almost dawn, for the fire has burned low, but the charwoman has not yet come on her rounds. I lie, listening. A soft cough echoes from the sitting room. It must have been the guards I heard. Maybe they changed watch.
The weight of the child is pressing against my bladder, but I snuggle deeper into the blankets. Already the girl’s face from my dream is slipping away from me. I try to remember whether her chin was oval like mine, or sharp like Alistar’s. For a moment, as I lie there drowsily, I pretend he’s here, too, holding me and the child against him.
A bitter smell sifts into the room. I lean up on my elbows. Sneeze.
There’s an echoing sound. A creak.
Smoke. The smell is smoke.
Yet the fire hasn’t been lit, and the charwoman hasn’t come—
I shove myself upright, just in time to see a flame ripple in the semi-darkness. My eyes are dazzled, blinded by the light. I can’t see him but I sense someone there in the dark. I catch the ragged sound of him, the staccato patter of sound mirroring his heartbeat.
“Who’s there?” I whisper.
There’s a breathless pause. The person is hesitating. In the dim light, the sound of him is amplified, his panic echoing toward me. My heartbeat surges into my ears. Instinctively, I reach out, not with my hands but with my inner senses, trying to grab onto the shape of him, trying to—
A soft gasp in the darkness. A pulse of blue flares from him. There’s a creak, and his shape slides out of my grip.
The smell of smoke is growing thicker. Deeper. Something cracks. Snaps.
There’s the faintest click. A door closing. The secret door?
I lunge onto my knees just as flames sweep my bed curtains in a sudden whoosh. I cry out. The flames pour up, over the foot of the bed—too late, I see the viscous trail of oil snaking across the coverlet. That man came all the way in here. He stood over me and traced oil across my bed—across me.
I’m standing on the bed now, rocking unsteadily on the down mattress. I reach for the man with my mind, but the sound of him has vanished, and my mind is sparking with panic. “Help!” I shout. “Help!”
Nothing. Where the hell is Grenou? They better not have gotten him, or I’ll have to feel sorry for the bastard.
Unless, of course, this was all his doing.
I seize a pillow, holding it in front of me like a shield. My bed is completely engulfed. Smoke thickens the air. I inhale and begin, helplessly, to cough. I need to move before it smothers me.
“Guards!” I scream through my choked throat. Instinctively, I scrabble for Grenou with my mind, trying to feel for the sound of his presence. But there’s nothing. He’s not there.
None of the guards are there.
I grab a second pillow. The flames are racing around the back of the bed now, smoldering up into the canopy. Are you ready to be brave?
I charge forward, stumbling on the mattress, and throw myself over the line of fire. There’s a burst of heat. The flames snatch at my nightgown, my hair. Something’s burning my legs. Someone is screaming.
Then my feet hit the floor, and I crash onto my knees. My elbows. I’m coughing into the pillow.
My back is on fire.
I fling myself over, my shoulder blades hitting the carpet hard. There’s a last, throbbing burn before the fire goes out.
At least, the fire on me. I pull myself upright, scuttling backward toward the table in front of the silent fireplace. Sheets of orange fire blaze around my bed, and the canopy collapses. Sparks fly out onto the carpet.
I slam the charred pillow over them. Somehow I’m on my feet. The palace sits around me, completely silent. There’s only me and this roaring fire.
I sprint into the sitting room. As I sensed earlier, it’s empty; Grenou’s gone. Before I can open the door into the corridor, a crash sounds from the bedchamber. A woman shrieks.
I run back in. The charwoman, Dorothée, has entered through the servants’ door and dropped a load of firewood all over the floor. She’s screaming, and the fire is blazing. “Queen Sophy! Help!”
Then she sees me, and startles wildly. “Your Majesty—all the gods—”
“Get help!” I say, before I start choking on the smoke again.
She hesitates, then races back down the se
rvants’ stair. The fire is eating hungrily into the floorboards below the bed now. I reach for the heavy carpet, trying to drag it backward.
There’s a shout behind me. “My lady!”
I drop the carpet and instead seize a poker from the fireplace. I turn, the flames heating my back, as Captain Grenou pounds through the brief hallway behind me.
I raise the poker, and he comes up short. He’s not panting hard. I didn’t sense him in my room, but he can’t have run far. Perhaps he was simply in the hallway.
Or perhaps he was the one who entered my room and drizzled oil over me.
I advance on him, the poker raised. He holds his ground, staring from me to the blazing wreckage of my bed. “Your Majesty—the fire—”
A shout erupts behind me; the servants have plunged up through the other door. There’s a hiss as a bucket of water is thrown at the flames, but it does nothing whatsoever to dim the heat at my back. Whatever Grenou may or may not have done, we need to put this fire out.
“Go,” I tell Grenou through my clenched teeth. “Get help.”
He just stares at me. At the poker.
“Get help!” I scream at him.
He bolts away.
I swing back to my burning bedchamber, heaving in a breath as sudden fatigue hits me. The fire is spreading, and the smoke has thickened so I can no longer see the servants. There’s a repeated hiss as they throw more water at the flames. Their shouts are smothered by the roaring fire. Gathering myself, I run back out to the sitting room and heave up the carpet from beneath the divan and armchair.
The door bursts open as I’m wrestling the carpet back toward the bedchamber. “Sophy! What’s going on? Are you all right?”
It’s Philippe—what is he doing here at this hour? I decide it doesn’t matter. “Help me!”
He grabs the other side of the wide carpet, and together we haul it into the bedchamber. With a heave, we throw it onto the flames. The fire gives an angry gasp, but dies back somewhat. Smoke stings my eyes. On the other side of the room, more vaporous hisses rise. The servants seem to be making progress with their bucket brigade.