The Soul of Power

by Callie Bates

  Hugh comes over to clasp my hands. He looks searchingly into my face. I have never really heard the sound of Hugh before, but it is as quiet and contained as I might have expected; the notes that make him up have a fluency like poetry. Quietly, he says, “Congratulations on your good news, Sophy dear.” He hesitates. “But is this quite the way you want it spread? I can send for Alistar, bring him off the hunt for Ciril. You can—”

  “No!” I’m vibrating with anger again. Did Hugh not listen to a word I said? “I’m not going to get married to conceal the fact that I’m carrying a child. The people deserve the truth, and the truth is that this is my body, and I chose to conceive a child so that our people could have hope for the future.”

  His glance slides toward Teofila, and I realize my pregnancy isn’t exactly news to him. “If that is what happened…”

  I feel my eyes narrow. He probably knows perfectly well that the baby was conceived well before Finn died—before I even thought I might become queen. All the same, I insist, “I am always putting the good of the kingdom first. Always. Just as Ruadan taught me.”

  “Of course.” He pats my hand, and I smart at his tone. I won’t be patronized, not even by Hugh—especially not by Hugh, who has known me most of my life and should have the decency to respect me. Especially when I’m afraid he might be right—not only about how the people will react, but about Alistar.

  He steps away, and I finally allow myself to drop once more onto the chaise. I’m still trembling. I shouldn’t have gotten angry; I’m not usually so quick to temper. But they threatened my child. Ruadan used to say, If you are going to lose your temper, take control of how and where you do it. Let it drive policy. A good statesperson lets their rage be for something bigger than themselves.

  It doesn’t feel as if I’ve succeeded in that. I feel more as if I’ve made a mess—particularly of my personal life. I should never have said that about Alistar.

  There’s a movement in front of me. Philippe crouches down. I jerk back instinctively.

  He doesn’t seem to notice. “Sophy, I’m afraid it might not be wise to arrest Devalle.”

  “Wise?” My temper surges back into my ears. “He wanted me dead, Philippe! He knew about their assassination plan—he probably helped devise it! Yes, I think it’s wise to put Devalle in prison. I value my life.”

  “I know, I know. But with things so volatile…” He lowers his voice. “You saw Rambaud last night—and Devalle. They’ll see this as an attack. And…they’ll strike back.”

  “It is an attack. I’m tired of placating people like Devalle. I’m sick of these games.” I look at Philippe. He seems sincere, yet his eyes aren’t quite meeting mine. He knows something, or suspects it. And suddenly I find myself wondering how Philippe Manceau ended up at my door this morning, before the guards even arrived. Before anyone else knew what had happened. Last night, Rambaud said Philippe’s mother had been writing to him—and Philippe didn’t disagree. I remember how Philippe looked at Grenou, and how Grenou stared back. How Philippe told me, just yesterday, that it was wise not to punish Grenou.

  Slowly, I say, “How did you come to be in the hallway this morning?”

  I hear the note pulse from him, high and bright. A sound like panic. The sudden awareness startles me; my own body is humming in response.

  “I…” His gaze darts past me. “It was a hunch.”

  “A hunch,” I repeat. I think back to last night, to Rambaud saying that the true king is coming. For a time, clearly, Devalle and the others wanted Philippe to marry me—an easy way for them to exert influence. But perhaps, in recent days, they decided they didn’t need to bother with me at all.

  Philippe said that he told them no. And maybe he truly doesn’t want to be king. He certainly made it abundantly clear that he doesn’t want to marry me. It doesn’t seem to be power he’s interested in.

  But he’s mixed up in this plot somehow. If he won’t come clean, then I’m left with no choice.

  I stand up, ignoring the ache in my legs, and snap my fingers. The guards are learning; two of them trot over. I gesture at Philippe. “Arrest the Count of Lylan.”

  “Sophy!” Philippe exclaims. “What—”

  But the guards have already grabbed him by the arms, yanking him up. He struggles.

  “I’m trying to help you,” Philippe says. “You have to believe me, Sophy, please—”

  “I don’t have to do anything,” I say coldly. “Unless you are prepared to tell me the truth about your involvement in this plot, I do not want to hear from you again.”

  He’s staring, his mouth fallen open.

  “And,” I add, “you have no right to call me Sophy. Guards, take him away.”

  * * *

  —

  “SOPHY!”

  The shout carries all the way from the hallway. I look up in time to see flying dark hair and a billowing coat before Rhia shoulders past the guards and practically flings herself on me. She smells of road dust and sweat. The doctor, who’s bandaging my burned legs, gives her an exasperated look.

  “What happened?” she’s demanding. “Someone said that cur Grenou attacked you—or maybe it was Lord Devalle. Are you hurt?”

  “Nothing serious.” I wince as the doctor tightens the bandage, and reach out with my free hand to squeeze Rhia’s wrist. “Any news on Ciril?”

  But Rhia is looking around the room, her face thunderous. “Where are my mountain women?”

  “They took ill…” As I say it, I realize what a fool I’ve been.

  “Took ill?” Rhia’s glowing with rage. “Took ill? Someone took you for a fool, Sophy Dunbarron! Where are they?”

  With a hasty apology to the doctor, I get up, stuffing my feet into slippers, and hurry after her. Rhia’s raging through the sitting room, sending everyone spinning out of her way. I race after her into the hallway. My heart thumps dully. I don’t want to imagine what might have happened to my queen’s guard. What a fool I was—what a damned fool—

  Ahead of me, Rhia takes the stairs to the third floor two at a time. I follow suit. I’m panting raggedly by the time we reach the top, and she swings back to face me.

  “Be careful, Sophy!” she bellows. “You don’t want to lose that damned babe after all this.”

  I’m gaping at her. “You knew?”

  “Anyone with eyes and a brain would know!” She tosses her head, but comes over to touch my shoulder with real concern. “I’ve spent months at your side, Sophy Dunbarron. When all the rest of us were complaining of getting our monthlies at the same time, you were puking every morning.”

  “Oh.” Heat suffuses my face. In a small voice, I say, “You all knew?”

  She raises an eyebrow. “My women can keep their mouths shut. I supposed you had a reason to keep it a secret, though…” Her lips quirk. “You might have trusted me.”

  “I should have.” Looking back, I don’t know why I didn’t seek out at least one ally. “Though I know what you would’ve said.”

  “Do you, now?” Rhia looks amused and a little offended. “And just what would I have said?”

  “You’d have called me the biggest fool you ever met.”

  “Now, that’s where you don’t know me as well as you think, Sophy Dunbarron.” She shakes her finger at me. “In the mountains—if you’d troubled to consider our customs—you’d have known it’s acceptable for a mother to bear a child out of wedlock, if she sees fit. Just like the queens of old.”

  She swings off, and I start after her. “Which queens of old? Rionach and Tierne were both married…”

  She flaps a hand. “The ones before them. The ones in Wildegarde’s time.”

  “You mean Aline?” I want to laugh. “She got pregnant by a man who took the shape of a black bear by day! And then he got murdered by that rival shaman.”

  “Well, so it wasn’t too
pragmatic to marry him, now, was it? She raised the child alone, as I recall.”

  I’ve never thought of the story that way. Aline, the queen of Caeris, fell in love with a sorcerer who’d been cursed to live as a bear by day, and a man by night. I suppose in Aline’s opinion she got the better end of the deal; he must have been quite a man. “It’s a legend,” I point out.

  “Her daughter Morvenna is your direct ancestor.” She raps on the nearest door. “Isley!”

  There’s an awful, extended silence. Then the door opens and Isley leans out. Her face is wan, and she’s clutching her gut. “Captain? I’m so sorry, we’ve all got the influenza…”

  “Food poisoning,” Rhia says. “That’s what you’ve got.”

  Isley’s gaze moves from her to me, and her lips part in comprehension. “All the gods!”

  “Incompetent assassins, incompetent poisoners,” Rhia grumbles. “Let me in. I want to examine your dishes from last night.”

  I start to follow her but catch myself. The women are terribly ill, and the last thing they need is to feel they have to perform for the queen. “I’ll visit later,” I tell Rhia. “Let them know how sorry I am.”

  “We’re all sorry!” she exclaims, shutting the door behind her.

  I turn to go—and discover the Butcher climbing to the top step behind me. He pauses to catch his breath; the steep stairs make even him pant. “You wished to see me privately, Your Majesty?”

  It’s not exactly what I said—and I never wish to see the Butcher privately—but I find myself nodding slowly. Perhaps he’s the one I should turn to about this matter, though I wish it were anyone else.

  “Walk with me.” I start down the corridor, and he follows. We’re passing servants’ rooms—I’m taking the chance that they’re unoccupied during the day, and no one is lurking, eager to overhear us. The thwarted assassination attempt should give Rambaud and his followers a stumbling block, if nothing else.

  The Butcher falls into stride next to me. I still feel stiff and strange walking alone next to him, as if every stride is a betrayal of my mother’s memory.

  “Those were several startling arrests,” he remarks, and I shake myself back to the present. “Grenou, Lord Devalle, Philippe Manceau.”

  “I suppose you think I should have exercised more caution.”

  “Not at all. I’ve suspected for some time that Rambaud planned to put Philippe on the throne, if he could.”

  I glance at him. “Yet Philippe doesn’t seem to want the throne. And”—despite Philippe’s refusal to tell me the truth—“I don’t think he much cares for Rambaud. It’s hard to see how Rambaud would control him.”

  “Oh, Manceau is the perfect pawn. A rebellious youth, a few mistakes…” The Butcher shrugs. “I have no doubt Aristide Rambaud has all the leverage he needs over that boy.”

  “Leverage?” I repeat. No one has ever told me anything about Philippe’s youth—Victoire didn’t seem to know—and now it’s too damned late. “You might have mentioned this before.”

  He shrugs. “I don’t know the details. He quarreled with his mother more than once—hardly a surprise there, given my experience of the woman—and it ended quite badly just before we deposed Loyce. Apparently he stole quite a large sum of money from her, and she threatened to disinherit him.”

  “Why would he steal money?” I ask, bewildered by this sudden influx of knowledge.

  “That, I haven’t been able to discover. But it’s been enough to keep him to heel.”

  “You should have told me this before.” I can’t keep the stinging anger from my tone. “If I’d known, I could have talked to Philippe. We might have offered him protection!”

  “Protection, against Rambaud? Against Philippe’s own mother?” The Butcher has the gall to look amused. “Philippe Manceau is no fool. Our position remains too precarious to offer him true protection, and he knows it. His mother won’t hesitate to remind him. Countess Veronique is not above that sort of manipulation.”

  Our position might be less precarious if we informed each other about matters like this, I think darkly. Perhaps there’s still a way to talk to Philippe—at least, once we establish who’s in control. I say, turning the conversation, “I’m still surprised they stooped to murder.”

  “I can only surmise that they heard Jahan Korakides destroyed the imperial fleet, and became desperate.” He pauses. “Though if Aristide Rambaud wanted you dead, I suspect you would be.”

  I glance at him. His chin is lowered, sunk in thought. “What do you suspect?” I ask warily. “I could have died.”

  “You could have, but you didn’t. I imagine they weren’t trying to make an attempt on your life so much as to sow discontent—and distrust of the refugees. They wanted it to look like Ciril’s handiwork, after all.”

  I feel my mouth tighten. They also want me to look like a fool for trusting foreigners, especially a Tinani man. “I’d trust Ciril over my own people,” I say, rather bitterly.

  “Mmm. It’s good you’re taking decisive action.”

  My lips twist. The idea I’ve had will require more gumption than just a few arrests—and it demands I trust this man, of all people. “I imagine everyone else is as surprised as you are,” I say, unable to swallow down my resentment completely. “It means there might be an opportunity for a further surprise, and I need your backing.”

  We’ve slowed in the corridor, and he faces me. His eyes are too neutral for me to read, and the sound of him is as muted as his expression. It’s maddening to find him so opaque. I want to shock him. Coolly, he says, “What sort of opportunity?”

  “The mayor of Montclair sent me an invitation to come to her town yesterday. To speak to her people.” I lift an eyebrow. “I’ve been told Montclair is an independent town, but the mayor is on excellent terms with Aristide Rambaud. It’s a perfect opportunity.”

  “You think to go to Montclair?” he says, incredulous. I’ve managed to shock him after all, but the dismay in his tone makes it a lot less satisfying than I imagined.

  “As I said, it’s an opportunity.” I fold my arms. “Rambaud and this mayor must be trying to trap me”—though it’s a bit galling to admit they think I’m that much of a fool—“but you must see this is our chance to trap them. I’ve arrested Rambaud’s highest-placed supporters. No doubt he still has spies, but they can’t be as close to me. This is our chance to lure him out. If we capture Rambaud, on top of all the others, the opposition ends.”

  He looks pensive. “It might give us leverage with King Alfred of Tinan, as well, given that he and Rambaud are friends.”

  “Yes. It may help prevent war.”

  But the Butcher is still frowning. “Montclair will be difficult to infiltrate. When I was last there…” He shakes his head a little. “It may be possible, with suitable planning. First we must ascertain that Rambaud himself will be there; I’ll ask my informants.”

  I nod. “And if he is? Will you help?”

  He’s considering it; there’s a hum of anticipation about him. “Rambaud isn’t a vain man, but he can be smug. If he thinks he’s won, there’s a good chance he’ll appear himself to lord it over you.”

  “That’s the impression I have as well,” I say, thinking back to the man who so smoothly controlled last night’s party. Rambaud won’t be able to resist showing me up—especially after our brief acquaintance. He’ll be insufferable.

  “Then we should try,” the Butcher decides, and I control my instinctive flush of victory. “We’ll need to keep the element of surprise, but tomorrow is the earliest we could manage. I would need to bring soldiers in, secretly, from the eastern side of town. I suppose the mayor would take you to the square, thinking they will secure the gate and bridge…We would have to secure the bridge, then, as well.”

  “I can bring a force with me,” I point out. “After all, I was almost assassinated
this morning. I think I can justify guards.”

  “No,” he says quickly, “that will make them suspicious. You’ll need to go in with only a few supporters.”

  I stare at him. “That won’t make them suspicious? They’ll think I’m a fool!”

  He doesn’t disagree, and I clench my teeth together. Perhaps this is how I appear to the Ereni—a gullible, overly trusting girl. Well, if that’s the case, I suppose I’ll have to play it to my advantage.

  “If you have too many guards, Rambaud will be wary,” the Butcher says. “If we truly want to lure him out, you must appear vulnerable.”

  “You want me to be a decoy. A sitting duck.”

  “Sometimes that requires more bravery than the soldiers who will surround the square.”

  Bravery. My eyes sting. It almost feels as if the Butcher is using Ma’s words against me, though he can’t possibly have known them. Are you ready to be brave?

  Today, I am.

  “I’ll do it,” I say briskly, “as long as I have Rhia Knoll at my side.”

  “Of course.” He nods. “I’ll reach out to my informants. We’ll need a map of the town, and then we can make a plan.”

  “Let’s meet again in an hour. Perhaps there’s a map in the archives—”

  He shakes his head. “That won’t be necessary. I’ve been there before.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The next morning dawns brilliant and clear, though the Butcher had hoped for rain and fog. We move out through the streets of Laon, my open carriage—no longer draped in black for mourning, but shining a brilliant gold—flanked by only five guards, the hilts of their sabers flashing on their shoulders. Rhia rides to my right, bolt-upright despite the sling on her arm, her brightly woven cloak flapping behind her. I feel naked with so few, but the Butcher insisted I must appear an easy target, and the other mountain women are still too ill to accompany us. Teofila and Hugh wave to me from the steps of the palace. Publicly, I’ve left them in charge of the city for the day; privately, I gave them instructions on what to do should I not return. Rambaud would enjoy holding me ransom, but at least if worse comes to worst, we have three of his people to bargain with.