The Soul of Power

by Callie Bates

  Perhaps there is something I can do. Not to stop them, but to influence how they perceive me. To persuade my father not to look at me with hatred or, worse, indifference. Maybe there’s a way I can use my magic—not the bone flute, but my ability to sense emotions. Perhaps I can work it to my advantage.

  When Rhia and I hear the blare of trumpets from the front of the palace, I prepare myself as best I can. I pin up my hair and shake the crumbs and dust from my clothes. My gown is stained, the hem torn. Though I don’t have a mirror to check myself in, I’m afraid I don’t look much like a lady, much less a queen.

  Ruadan always told me it is not the clothes one wears, but the way one carries oneself, that makes one a king or a queen. It is the heart within.

  So when the guards rap at the door and throw back the bolt at last, I am ready. I put back my shoulders and tell myself I have the heart of a queen. That, regardless of what I wear or how I am treated or who has claimed my throne, I am still a monarch.

  And I will behave as such.

  They sent eight guards to bring out two women. I let myself smile a little as I step out into the corridor. The men are palace guards.

  “Hello, Alain,” I say cordially, and he lowers his head. I look at each of the others in turn. “Basile. Charles. Duncan. Ambrose. Yves. Manfred. Sebastien.”

  The men look away from me, uncomfortable, unable to meet my eyes. They don’t even try to touch either of us. Alain simply gestures me forward, Rhia at my back. The guards fall into a tight square around us and begin to walk.

  “Yves,” I call, “did you recover from that sprained wrist?”

  There’s an awkward silence. Several of the others glance surreptitiously at Yves. At last, he says, “It’s much better, Your Maj—my lady.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. And Sebastien, is your mother better after the croup?”

  Another silence, and then, “She’s still coughing some,” Sebastien mutters. “But she’s better.”

  “The draught Demetra sent helped?”

  “Yes,” he says hesitantly, “it did.”

  I don’t want to think about Demetra and the others in Barrody, or Teofila presumably on her way to Baedon, or Elanna and Jahan returning to this shambles of a kingdom. I’m just glad this one guard is willing to admit that sorcery made a difference for his mother’s health.

  We pass through the scarred wall and into the palace proper. Up the familiar staircase. My heart thumps once, twice. I suspect where our path is taking us—to the most elaborate salon the palace has to offer. A room so roundly criticized for its opulence that I hesitated even to enter during my time here. The Diamond Salon.

  Clearly neither my father nor Rambaud shares my qualms.

  The filigreed doors stand open, and we enter the glittering splendor of the room. I take in the twinkling chandeliers for which it’s named; the tables of clear, fragile glass; the chaises of velvet and satin. Portraits of Eyrlai kings and queens populate the walls.

  And standing under their eyes is Euan Dromahair.

  I recognize him immediately, though I have never set eyes on even a likeness of him before. He’s tall, like Finn, like me, the famous ruddy-gold hair darkened to a dull brown; like Finn, his profile is long and narrow. Courtiers surround him—Rambaud, dressed in a fine red coat sewn with gemstones, Philippe somber in his customary black, and many others. Set apart from the others are a handsome olive-skinned young man wearing a knee-length coat that seems to be woven of gold, and a thin young woman in fluttering pink satin on his arm; they must be the siblings from Paladis. Many others crowd the chamber, along with a handful of foreign guards—presumably part of the Paladisan force the Saranons brought with them. I don’t know most of the Ereni nobles, except for Lord Devalle, who has the nerve to smirk when he glimpses me. I can’t resist sending Lord Gavin and the three Caerisians flanking him a dark look.

  Our arrival is announced, though the words pass clear, unheard, over my ears. My father is turning toward me and all thought goes out of my head. My heart beats so hard I feel each pulse like a hammer throughout my body. I’m hoping, even though I know I shouldn’t.

  Rambaud is talking, moving, gesturing to us, but I can only see my father. And the sound of him…

  All the hair lifts on my arms. The sound of him is heavy and black as a fugue.

  “…Sophy Dunbarron,” Rambaud is saying. “We took her prisoner in Caeris, where she’d fled pretending to be queen again. And her guardswoman, Rhia Knoll.”

  As if a guardswoman is all that Rhia is.

  I try to reach within as Demetra taught me, for my own feeling, for warmth and kindness to emanate from me, disarming them. But my voice only comes out dry. Raw. Shaking. “Hello, Father.”

  Euan’s gaze snaps to me. His eyes are blue, like Finn’s, like mine, and as dead as ice. A pulse of emotion bursts off him, like a splatter of liquid ink, dark and viscous.

  “I have been looking forward to meeting you for a long time,” I continue, trying to push feelings of goodwill and welcome toward him. But I can tell it’s not working. All I can feel is the sound of him, the low note that unsettles my very bones, though I can’t even say why. I taste bile in the back of my throat.

  The birdlike Idaean princess—Phaedra—brings a hand to her stomach. “Such a pity to see the fate that befalls women who take whatever they want,” she declares in pinched Idaean, so high and quick it takes me a moment to understand. Her tone doesn’t make it seem like much of a pity at all, though; more the fate I deserve.

  Her brother—Augustus, it must be—is staring at my own hand on my stomach, the gesture Phaedra unconsciously echoed. His eyebrows keep rising.

  “So this is her?” A woman has grasped Philippe’s arm; she’s watching me with a supercilious curl of her lip. She wears a wide, stiff gown, and her hair is piled up in an old-fashioned tower. The mother, no doubt, who thinks it’s acceptable to threaten her son if he doesn’t do what she wants him to. “You did well to avoid marrying her, darling. Look how far gone that belly of hers is. I wonder if the child will be dissolute like her.”

  I meet the woman’s eyes. Clearly this is Philippe’s mother; strange to think I slept in her bed.

  “At least everything I have done, I did for the good of Eren and Caeris,” I say, unable to bite down my anger. “At least I didn’t clutch my gold and finery to my chest and dole out poor rations to my servants, and force them to remain indebted on my lands, and tell the people they had no power in the governance of this country, all while I lived in a veritable palace.” I glance at Lord Gavin and the handful of other Caerisians in the crowd. “I gave the people the promise of a better nation, and you all fought me for it because you didn’t want to give up even a fraction of your wealth.” I point at Rambaud. “You bought your way back in here, and when the people turn on you, you had better not forget that you paid for your power in coin instead of merit.”

  My voice echoes into a stunned sort of silence and I feel my eyebrows rising. Maybe I’ve put the seal on any chance we had of bargaining, but at least I spoke the truth. No one has responded; I’m not sure the new arrivals even understood me. The Idaean siblings look confused, and a deep frown has appeared between my father’s brows. I find myself wondering how well he understands Ereni; he’s never even set foot on our land, after all.

  “Well,” Rambaud says eventually, in Idaean, “now you have witnessed an authentic display of Caerisian temper. No wonder they won—and lost.” He gives me a mocking smile. “Your Majesty, what would you like done with your daughter?”

  I hurry to speak before Euan can reply; maybe I can salvage this situation yet. “I bow to your insight, of course, but I want to tell you that I am uniquely qualified to manage the governance of Caeris. Ruadan Valtai raised me at his knee, with all the education of a queen. One might say I have spent years practicing for the position. The people of Caeris—or m
ost of them”—I can’t resist an ironic glance at Lord Gavin—“trust me. Perhaps we could forget our ill beginning. In time, you might even learn to think of me as your daughter.”

  “Silence.”

  That’s all Euan Dromahair says, that one word. I stop. I was wrong. His eyes aren’t dead. There’s a rage in him, so old it’s hardened into a fossilized thing. Now it’s coming alive.

  He begins to walk toward me. The guards move out of the way. I freeze, then square my shoulders and stare him in the face. He’s coming closer and closer, and all I can hear is the wrong sound of him. Wrong, wrong, wrong—

  Euan Dromahair pauses before me. He studies my face. I scrabble for the locket I’ve shoved into the pocket of my skirts. “Here,” I say, thrusting it at him, even though the sound of him warns me not to. But I’m not going to back down. I won’t let him see me be weak. “From my mother.”

  He takes the locket. Our fingers brush together, and I struggle not to jerk back. The mere brush of his skin brings the wrong sound of him far too close.

  He gives me an odd, calculating look, then throws the locket into the fireplace. It disappears into the coals. My heart thumps, and the baby kicks. I stare at my father.

  But he’s no longer looking at me. He’s turned to face the rest of the chamber. “For twenty years, I have been the king of Caeris,” he says in a flat, hard voice. “Living in exile. Waiting. A man called Ruadan Valtai promised me the throne. Twenty years have passed, and I never got it.”

  “I wrote to you—” I begin.

  “Silence!” he roars. His hand flies out and catches me across the mouth. I stagger backward, numb with shock. I didn’t expect him to hit me, and the shock stings more than the physical pain.

  Euan has already turned from me. “First my son Finn failed to claim the crown,” he’s saying, his voice a dull, angry beat. “Died a failure. Then this—” He points a shaking finger at me. “This creature claimed it. As if I would name a filthy Caerisian harlot as my heir.”

  The floor seems to sway under me. Ruadan was wrong about this man—so utterly wrong I can’t even fathom it. Euan Dromahair did not want to fight for a better kingdom, for a people’s freedom and rights. He wanted a crown handed to him, earned by others’ blood, not effort. He wanted to sit on a throne.

  “And she thinks I would back her against my friends, the Saranons,” he goes on, angrily. “She asked me to fight against Alakaseus, the late emperor! The most charitable man I have ever known.”

  Charitable? He’s talking about the man who ordered Elanna executed. The man responsible for witch hunts; the man who declared war on our country.

  Augustus Saranon clears his throat. “We do mourn our poor, late father.”

  “Deeply,” Phaedra Saranon says in a high, clear voice, as cold as cut glass.

  Neither of them mentions their still-living brother, the current emperor, but his name seems to hover like a ghost in the room.

  Euan has turned his back to me completely now. He’s talking to Rambaud. “I have waited twenty years for my crown, and you will get it for me.”

  “I had a plan for Caeris,” Rambaud says in careful Idaean. His gaze flickers to me. “Unfortunately, it didn’t work as well as expected.”

  My heartbeat surges into my ears. Caeris must still be free. Ingram Knoll, Teofila, Hugh, and Alistar must have succeeded in putting at least part of our plan in place, even though Rhia and I were captured. All the same, I don’t dare trust the hope pulsing in my chest.

  Augustus Saranon’s mouth quirks. “It seems you need a different plan.”

  Rambaud gestures at me. “We have the Caerisian queen. She’s the ultimate bargaining piece. Whatever you—”

  “What did you call her?” Euan Dromahair demands.

  Rambaud’s mouth closes.

  “It seems he called her the queen of Caeris,” Phaedra Saranon says lazily. “Though of course his Idaean is difficult to understand, being so provincial.”

  “I am the king of Caeris,” Euan Dromahair says, his face close to Rambaud’s now, his voice cold with anger. “There is no other ruler.”

  Rambaud’s chin has lifted, but he’s too consummate a politician to lose his temper. He gently deflects. “You are now the king of Eren, as well. It is a rich kingdom. Fertile. The climate is—”

  “I am not interested in the climate,” Euan Dromahair says coldly. “I have taken Eren, and it is mine. But I have also been promised Caeris, and I will have it. It belongs to me.”

  There’s a stir among the Ereni nobles. Presumably they don’t understand the desire for my country.

  Rambaud hesitates. “I understand, of course,” he says, though he clearly doesn’t. I’m not sure any of us do. “But Caeris is a rough, hardscrabble sort of place. The people are notoriously difficult subjects. In truth”—he laughs a little—“you may not want Caeris.”

  A sigh explodes from Euan Dromahair. He nods at Augustus Saranon.

  “We do want Caeris,” the Paladisan prince explains, patiently. “It has resources that interest us. People, mainly. We plan to conscript the Caerisians into the army, so they may help us retake Ida.”

  There’s a silence. I glance at the Ereni nobles. Most of them seem stunned. They must have thought Euan was coming here, for them, to be their king—not to help Phaedra and Augustus Saranon take the empire of Paladis, so that Eren could become a vassal state. Philippe is frowning; I catch his eyes, and he shakes his head minutely.

  Phaedra Saranon is looking at me, too. I don’t like the small smile touching her lips.

  “Well, if you want Caeris,” Rambaud says at last, “we must use Sophy Dunbarron as our bargaining chip.”

  “We will not bargain,” Euan Dromahair says coldly. “We will begin as we mean to go on. The Caerisians—and the Ereni who supported them—must learn that no rebellion will be tolerated. The girl is a pretender, not a queen. She will be treated as such.” He nods at me. “See she is executed tomorrow.”

  Executed. I’m swaying, but I force my legs wide. I force myself to look at him.

  “I am the queen of Caeris. And I am your daughter. You have no ri—”

  Euan moves fast. Too fast. The back of his hand connects with my nose. There’s a sharp crack. Pain. Hot liquid trails onto my upper lip. Blood. My eyes water; I stagger, fetching up against Alain. He holds me up.

  “This is not a child of mine,” Euan Dromahair says coldly. “Remove it.”

  My vision’s swimming. A hot trickle of blood is running from my nose. I try to focus on his face, but he’s already turning away.

  Then, as if he remembers something, he swings back. I flinch instinctively, but he only snaps his fingers. “And the other one.” He nods at Rhia. “Take her into Royal Square and have her whipped in front of the people. She has a man’s position, she can take a man’s punishment.”

  “Sir—” Philippe’s voice.

  “I will not be questioned,” Euan Dromahair says, his voice tired. As if he has been questioned so often, and is so weary of it. “I am your king. You should remember that I control your positions here.”

  “We understand, sir,” Rambaud himself intervenes, “but the Knoll woman is so small. If she’s flogged—”

  “I am not interested.” Euan waves a hand. “Guards!”

  Alain and Sebastien seize my arms, pulling me backward. Through the haze of pain, I glimpse Rhia’s face, red with rage. Everyone else in the room seems to have frozen.

  “Rhia,” I try to say, but my voice is thick with pain and blood. But the guards are already pulling me from the chamber. Alain puts his arm around my waist, supporting me. I shake him off, even though it’s hard to see straight. I won’t be carried like a sack of flour. “Rhia!”

  She’s being dragged in the opposite direction. I lunge for her, but Alain holds me back. “No, Your Majesty.” He and Se
bastien try to wrestle me forward, and I throw them off once more.

  “I’ll walk,” I say with all the dignity I possess.

  And I do. I walk the long corridors back to Demetra’s chamber, where Alain whispers, “I’m sorry, my lady,” before bolting the door.

  I stand in the center of the small room. I’m alone. Alone to contemplate my death.

  And to wonder what will become of Rhia.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  The day darkens to twilight. I have stood on the stool and tried to squeeze my body through the window, toward the stain of urine on the roof below. I have snapped the bones of my broken nose back into place, gasping at the pain but staying conscious. I have pounded on the door and demanded the guards tell me what’s happened to Rhia.

  They have not answered, and Rhia hasn’t been brought back. I bite down on my knuckle, as if it can keep me from bellowing in pure rage. I pace the small, dim room yet again. There is no budging these four walls. I’m not Jahan, who can shift the particles that make up our very existence; my magic, if it can be called that, is a small and practically useless thing. I can sense the humming song of the guards outside the door, and the baby kicking in my stomach, but that is all.

  I keep seeing my father’s face. The old and terrifying anger in his eyes. Keep feeling the crack of his hand on my cheek.

  He’s no father to me.

  I pace again. My back is cramping. Aching. I have to stop and brace myself against Demetra’s desk. The cramps grip my hips, my buttocks. A wave of nausea dizzies me. I crouch, pressing my forehead against my arms. The cramps knead through my lower back again. I grind my teeth together. “It’s all right,” I whisper to the baby, to my own aching body. “It’s all right.”

  But my body—or the baby—must know I’m lying because another cramp racks me. Tears water my eyes. They are worse than any ache I ever had with my monthly courses, and I slowly curl my hands into fists.