The Soul of Power

by Callie Bates

  Rhia’s head comes back up, and he hits her again.

  “Enough!” I cry out. “She’s done nothing to hurt you, Grenou, only wounded your damn pride.”

  He swings toward me, his eyes black with rage. “She’ll kill me if she can.”

  Rhia’s cheeks are scarlet where he slapped her, and her hair’s coming loose from its braid. “All because you couldn’t tolerate answering to a woman,” she mutters.

  “What did you say?” Grenou rounds on her.

  But a footman hurries up, interrupting. “Rambaud is ready for them now.”

  Alain adjusts the rope on my arm; it’s too tight, and I grunt.

  He winces. “Sorry, my lady,” he breathes, and loosens the bindings just a fraction, so the numbness leaves my hands.

  I hardly have time to comprehend his kindness. He prods me toward the palace entrance. I stumble forward. Rhia stalks beside me, her jaw taut and angry. The marks on her face are going to bruise. I fight down a pulse of pure rage. I always knew Grenou was trouble—I should have done something about him when I was queen, when I had the power to remove such men. Now we’re stuck with him, and this miserable situation.

  We climb slowly up the grand staircase, Alain hanging on to my elbow as if I’m an old woman.

  Sebastien notices this, too. “You don’t need to cosset her. She isn’t the queen any longer.”

  “She’s with child!” Alain says, as if that explains everything. At least someone doesn’t seem to hold it against me.

  We pace down the hall, passing servants who stare at us, wide-eyed. I know their names, too, and the names of their families. Their histories. It’s strange; in my deepest fears, when we were fighting Antoine and then Loyce Eyrlai, this is exactly what I imagined, being brought before them to be humiliated. Only we claimed the palace for ourselves, and now I am a prisoner in the place I was beginning to think of as home.

  “The duke?” Alain asks a footman. Grenou has been left behind in the courtyard.

  The footman’s gaze catches on me. His mouth opens.

  “Hello, Basile,” I say quietly. Have they even noticed that I remember all their names? It doesn’t seem to matter how hard I tried. Maybe they were always going to betray me.

  Basile closes his mouth and points wordlessly to a door down the hall. The Yellow Salon. I walk forward of my own accord, and the guards quickly close around me again.

  The salon is warm and quiet. Only two people occupy it: a young man with auburn hair seated at a writing desk, pen in hand, ink staining his fingers. And Rambaud himself, standing before the fireplace, his hands linked behind his back, head bent in thought.

  He turns, and I tear my gaze away from Philippe, who has looked up with a quickly concealed frown. Rambaud takes us in. Slowly, he begins to smile, and the sound of him pulses warmly, reflecting his apparently genuine pleasure. “Well, it looks as if Lord Gavin made good on his claims.”

  “He caught them in Barrody, I’m told,” Alain says. “And brought them south to Captain Grenou.”

  Rambaud looks at me and shakes his head. “Some friendly advice,” he says to me. “Never deprive a man of the rewards he expects to reap from his service to you. Gavin’s family used to be the high judges of Caeris. You knew that, didn’t you?”

  I say nothing. I did, but I didn’t think it mattered. Not this much.

  “You replace them with the wardens of the mountains, who have jurisdiction over justice.” He gestures at Rhia. “So he doesn’t get his tax break on his pension, and he can’t buy all those things he’s been dreaming of once he got better access to trade. And quick enough, he starts to wonder if Euan Dromahair wouldn’t have listened to him better. If a king would be better than a queen.” He snaps his fingers. “It’s not far from there to him believing you stole your father’s rightful throne.”

  “I see,” I say coldly.

  “If only you had spoken to him at that party at Lord Devalle’s house, perhaps you would have known not to trust him.”

  I go very still. He’s watching me with a cool amusement. So he knew who I was all along. I suppose it shouldn’t surprise me. “Did I give myself away so obviously?”

  “Not at all.” He glances at Philippe, and I wince. Of course Rambaud knew perfectly well who Philippe was—and, I finally realize, must have ordered him to bring me there. No wonder Philippe seemed so angry about it. “But it was a fine attempt at deceit,” Rambaud adds. “Almost as fine as our Philippe’s own in attempting to aid you.”

  “I told you I gave that up,” Philippe says calmly. “Mother reminded me of all I stood to lose.”

  Rambaud’s gaze is shrewd. “Indeed. And you have been exceedingly gracious about it ever since. You haven’t attempted to rescue this woman from a certain fire, for instance. Or happened to leave the palace during the raid on a certain warehouse.”

  I feel my jaw clench. So Philippe isn’t here simply to serve as Rambaud’s amanuensis—Rambaud stationed him here for this moment. At least I can finally guess what Philippe was really doing outside my rooms during the fire: He must have caught wind of the plot and come to rescue me, despite his mother’s threats.

  Philippe doesn’t waver. “I told you, I didn’t trust Grenou not to slaughter them all. I went after him thinking I could prevent bloodshed.”

  “And our opponents conveniently escaped,” Rambaud drawls. He’s watching me.

  “That’s hardly my fault.” Philippe’s voice is bland.

  I simply shrug, struggling to keep my expression neutral. Somehow I doubt Philippe has managed to smuggle any messages to Victoire.

  “Oh, well,” Rambaud says. Disconcertingly, he smiles at me. “I’m glad you survived Montclair. Well done.”

  “You might have caught us,” I point out.

  “We decided it was unnecessary to pursue you further,” he says. “Since your father is, after all, the rightful king, it somewhat diminishes your claim to the throne. I presume you heard he’s coming back?”

  “It was hard to miss,” I say flatly.

  “Oh, good. I pride myself on being able to effectively disseminate information.” He looks Rhia over, then comes back to me. “Lord Gilbert was our true target. Justice has been served!”

  “Praise the gods,” Philippe says, still in that bland tone.

  “I’m certain your mother is overjoyed to hear the news,” Rambaud says.

  “No doubt.” Philippe pauses. “But revenge is a cold bedfellow.”

  “I suppose she’ll take it, since the Butcher robbed her of your father. And my mother.” Rambaud looks at me and clicks his tongue. “Didn’t you know? Philippe’s father was a spy—in the employ of my mother, a wicked degenerate working for the Paladisan emperor. Rather inconvenient for Antoine Eyrlai, since the Count of Lylan was also a member of the cabinet. One fine day our parents met outside the city to exchange some particularly sensitive news. Little did they know the king knew. They didn’t expect to be thrown to their deaths.” He pauses. “Not over the bridge in Montclair.”

  A cold shiver runs down my spine. Montclair wasn’t only meant for me. It was a message sent to the Butcher—a message he dismissed, because we both believed we could spring the trap Rambaud had set. He must have guessed it wasn’t coincidence that Rambaud chose Montclair—but maybe, at the same time, he didn’t imagine it portended his own death.

  “Antoine Eyrlai made a poor choice that day,” Rambaud adds. “He might have had our parents interrogated, made to answer for their crimes. Instead he chose to kill them. A foolish choice, for they were well liked. Loved, in fact.” He gives me a significant look. “And never forgotten.”

  My mouth feels full of butterflies, but I say, “Remind me never to murder any of your family members.”

  “You are, I suspect, far too gentlehearted to attempt such a thing.” He pauses. “Although there was that sorcer
er who tried to kill me.”

  “I didn’t send him.”

  “Oh,” Rambaud says, somewhat patronizingly, “I know. I was just wondering whether you would take responsibility. You’re wise not to.”

  My chin comes up. “Did you not try to murder me?”

  “Oh, no,” Rambaud says with a smile. “If I’d wanted you dead, you would be dead. I was merely trying to ensure there was a certain degree of discord. My colleagues, however, got a bit…overzealous.”

  “Hmm,” I say, “and of course having such a blunder on your personal history would be terribly embarrassing. No wonder you don’t want to take responsibility.”

  Rambaud laughs out loud. He says to Philippe, “I like her.”

  “A lot of people do,” Philippe replies.

  Rambaud raises an eyebrow. “With the exception of the ones I’ve paid not to.” He laughs again at my expression. “Isn’t that how you bought loyalty to your little rebellion, Your Majesty? Your currency was promises of power and autonomy rather than gold, but it seems to me it worked much the same way.”

  “We’ll have to agree to disagree on that point,” I say flatly. “What do you plan to do with us?”

  “A good question.” Rambaud tilts his head. “I wasn’t expecting you to land right in my lap. What do you think, Philippe? What should we do with Sophy Dunbarron and Rhia Knoll?”

  It has the tone of a trick question, but Philippe meets Rambaud’s eyes with an apparently even temper. “The king will be here tomorrow or the day after. Sophy is, after all, his daughter. You might leave it to him to decide.”

  “A logical proposal.” Rambaud chuckles. “Maybe he’ll make her his heir! Wouldn’t that be ironic?”

  “Or,” I say, “you could let me go, and treat me as queen of the sovereign nation of Caeris. We could discuss the terms of our alliance.”

  “Clever, little queen,” Rambaud says, “but do you really think the people of Caeris will side with you against your own father? Oh, I am sure you made your plans and fortified your defenses. But once Euan Dromahair is here, the king from across the sea? How can you compete with a legend?” He claps his hands. “Guards, see these women are comfortably situated until the king’s arrival.”

  Alain steps forward. “We can hold them in the east wing, sir.”

  Rambaud nods and gestures the guards to take us out. “See it done.”

  I’m careful not to catch Philippe’s eye as we leave.

  We emerge into the corridor. A man is approaching us with a swift, confident gait. He’s sleek, bright-eyed. It’s Devalle.

  He pauses. Smiles directly at me. Then he goes in to see Rambaud.

  * * *

  —

  THEY TAKE US to the east wing, through the great hall and up the winding stairs to a small study, to a room with a single bed and a desk cluttered with a drift of dried rosemary. I almost laugh, though my mouth is dry. Somehow we’ve been directed to Demetra’s chamber. The bolt slides home, echoing in the small chamber. Rhia bangs her fist on the door, just once, in frustration.

  I approach the desk, wondering. A kind of hope is caught in my chest. But the desk is bare, and I drop to my knees. On the other side of the heavy oak, wedged between it and the wall, is a sheet of paper. My heart pounds as I tug it free. It’s been written on in Ereni—a simple, stark phrase. I will try.

  I sink down on my heels. Alain might have left the note, but the handwriting looks more like Philippe’s. Are they working together, I wonder, or did Philippe just happen to mention this room to Alain? It’s impossible to guess now, and I can’t risk asking the guards. I shake my head. However it got here, it’s hard to put much stock in the author’s optimism.

  “What?” Rhia says. “Did Demetra leave you a secret message?”

  “It’s from Philippe, I think.”

  She takes the paper and snorts. “That’s not any help.”

  I sigh and drop the note to the table. “I know.” I hunt in my pocket for the bone flute. I don’t see a reflective surface in this room—nowhere to contact Jahan and Elanna, or Teofila. But perhaps my flute can help somehow.

  Yet I stop before I put it to my lips, staring at Rhia. She’s paced the length of the small room to the high, narrow window. Now she leans down and pulls off her right boot. I blink. She’s wiggling the heel, and finally, with a grunt, twists it to the side. She pulls out a small, rounded blade no larger than the palm of her hand.

  “I’m not sure what amazes me more,” I remark. “The fact that you have that blade, or the fact that it even occurred to you to put it in your boot.”

  Rhia sniffs, but she can’t hide a little smirk. “I took precautions when I first came into your lowlands.”

  “Our lowlands are a bit more civilized than your mountains!”

  “Oh, really? I can’t recall the last time a mountain lord overthrew the warden of the mountains and took them prisoner.”

  I think hard for a moment. Then I point at her. “The Lords of the Western Isles, in 4123, common time. A Blair took a Browne hostage and she escaped from a tower with her wits and a penknife she had hidden in the lining of her stays.”

  “You know all my influences,” Rhia complains, dragging a stool over to the wall and standing on it so she can work the blade around the edge of the window.

  “She used the penknife as a handhold so she could climb down the side of the tower, didn’t she? Jammed it between the stones?”

  Rhia looks long-suffering. “A solution that could have worked if I were imprisoned alone.”

  “And if your guards were deaf and blind.” I pause. “I doubt Rambaud is that much of a fool.”

  With a grunt, Rhia digs her fingernails under the edge of the window and pries it open. A gust of bright spring air pours in. I get to my feet, inhaling. It smells like hope.

  Rhia leans her head out the window, and with a twist, her shoulders. But the frame catches around her arms, and she yelps at the pressure on her barely healed bone.

  “Do you need me to pull you back in?” I ask, almost laughing, though I glance anxiously behind me to make sure the guards haven’t heard.

  “No,” Rhia says with as much dignity as she can muster. She winches herself slowly back into the room and turns to glower at me, clutching at her wounded arm. “There’s a roof directly below. We could get out if the window wasn’t built for children!”

  “I doubt they designed it so someone could crawl out of it.” But my brief flare of hope is sinking away. If the window’s too small for Rhia to wiggle out, there’s no way I can squeeze my larger, pregnant body through.

  I shake my head and lift the bone flute to my lips. I play a short, sweeping series of notes. The flute’s sound is lovely, just the right amount of depth and sweetness. When I close my eyes, it’s as if the music heightens my senses. I hear the strains of all the people moving within the palace, the city, the hum of the land itself. It brightens my awareness of the world until this small, dark room seems almost incandescent.

  Yet nothing happens. The music is beautiful. And useless.

  “Maybe you can play that and summon a white knight to rescue us,” Rhia says dourly, dropping onto the pallet bed. “Except they’d better bring a potion to shrink both of us, because that’s the only way we’re getting out that damned window.”

  I lower the flute with a sigh. Jahan might be able to walk through walls, but clearly that is not what the bone flute is designed to do.

  “Perhaps Euan will take pity on us,” I say drily. “He is my father, after all.”

  She casts me a skeptical glance, and I shrug.

  “It’s possible, you know.”

  “Mmm-hmm,” Rhia says, but she doesn’t argue. We both know it isn’t going to happen. Darkly, she says, “Those bastards better not have imprisoned my mountain women, that’s all I have to say. Or they’ll pay the p
rice.”

  It worries me, too—the fate of not only the mountain women, but Fiona and any other Caerisian servants in the palace. “We’ll find them,” I promise her, though the words sound hollow even to me.

  She just closes her eyes.

  I step over to the window. The spring breeze teases my hair—the wind that is bringing my father to Eren. Once, that would have been a source of hope.

  I put the bone flute to my lips. I play my heart into the song, a series of notes rising to a desperate height and then sinking, so softly, away. I wonder, as I play, whether Teofila left for Baedon. If Alistar and Hugh and Ingram Knoll have uncovered the truth about our disappearance. The day darkens as I play. Over the palace roofs, I see no rescuers appear. Only a distant bell rings somewhere deep in the city, a sole, empty sound.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  We’re brought food twice a day, and Rhia uses the window to dump out the contents of the chamber pot. Our only options seem to be to attack a guard and thus steal out of the east wing—admittedly unlikely, as we don’t even know how many are on duty, or where they are stationed—or to wait for my father’s mercy.

  He is my father, I tell myself. Blood binds us together, even if my mother never spoke his name. It’s possible he isn’t aware of how viciously Rambaud and his followers overthrew us, and will decide he wants to work with us. Perhaps—and this, I have to admit, is the unlikeliest thing of all—he’ll even decide he likes me. True, he didn’t much care for Finn, nor Finn for him. But my half brother, who died too young, didn’t truly want to be king or even prince, at least according to Elanna. He died before he could ever discover what he truly wanted to be. Our father never gave him another option in life.

  Kind of like Ruadan did me. Once I came into his care, what choice did I have but to inherit this crown, after Finn died, whether I wanted it or not?

  The difference between Finn and me is that I do want it. If that truth is a weakness, so be it. If I am honest with myself, I want this crown, and I always have.

  And I won’t let my father, or Rambaud, or Phaedra and Augustus Saranon, take it from me without a fight.