The Soul of Power

by Callie Bates

  No, they’re not selfish, I realize. Rambaud doesn’t seek glory for himself; he hasn’t placed the crown on his own head. He didn’t seize power for the love of it. Maybe he’s been afraid, like the rest of us, of what Tinan and Baedon and Paladis would do if they allied against us. Maybe he’s been worried that Caeris would hold dominion over Eren, just the way Eren always did over Caeris. Maybe he hasn’t been fighting to protect his own interests so much as to preserve the future.

  Because Rambaud has a family. He has a daughter, and he loves her. Maybe he loves her with the same raging love I feel for my own child. The kind of love that drives you beyond reason, that propels you to do whatever you must, or think you must, for their sake.

  I put the bone flute to my lips, and I play again. This is the song of a man hated by many, but still with a father’s heart. A man who tried to turn the tide against the people who’d claimed his country, only to find that his own child had succumbed to magic like a plague. A man who, for all that he might have turned on the girl, still loves her. A man who will do everything he can to keep her safe.

  The thread builds. It’s weaker than Alistar’s, a wisp rather than a river, but it’s enough.

  I tramp forward, past the trees. The silver wisp leads us through a fallow farm field, overgrown with brambles, and past a low, run-down wall. The muddy ground threatens to yield underfoot. My hair trails soggy onto the back of my neck, and my skirt is growing heavy with moisture, and we’ve left Alistar behind. I’m angry—angry at Rambaud, angry at the world. Rhia strides beside me, silent.

  We cross another sodden field, and another, and another. We’ve been walking for nearly an hour now, yet still the wisp tugs me on.

  Through the haze of rain, ahead, a house finally appears, surrounded by a scattering of outbuildings. We draw to a stop behind what seems, from its fresh-cut odor, to be the woodshed. Rain drips into my face. The house is tall, two stories of stone draped in creeping ivy. Not a mansion, but large enough. The upper floor has an open balcony in the Paladisan style, just visible through the drizzle.

  Somewhere on the other side of the house, a dog barks. I go very still. Another answers.

  They fall silent. The rain patters. Rhia turns her face toward me.

  “Get a rope,” I whisper to her. “There must be one in the woodshed.”

  She’s cross and wet. “And what will you do, O majestic one?”

  “I’ll sing.”

  “Sing.”

  “To the dogs.”

  I don’t dare to use the bone flute, which would wake a human, and I don’t want to sing aloud for the same reason. So I brace myself against the back of the shed and hum. I hum a soothing song, a memory of a long night by the fire with a full belly and tired limbs, after a long romp in the forest, surrounded now by friends. At some point, Rhia moves past me, slipping into the woodshed. I keep humming.

  It’s easier to sing for the dogs than it was for Rambaud—though harder to tell if it’s working. No more barks, at least, puncture the night.

  Rhia emerges from the woodshed. I follow her, still humming, over to the back of the house. She’s tied something heavy—a chunk of wood—to the end of the rope, so when she hurls it over the edge of the balcony, it catches and holds.

  “If someone comes, you run,” she orders me. Then she climbs up first, awkward with her sling, a shadow in the dark.

  She tugs the rope three times when she’s finished. I start after her. The rope burns my palms, and I’m heavier than I’ve ever been. I’m sweating too much to hum. At last my palm strikes the balustrade, and Rhia grips my coat with her good hand, pulling me over the edge.

  We peer through the nearest window, into Aristide Rambaud’s bedchamber. It’s dim and silent through the pattering rain. Rhia tries the handle of the glass Paladisan door. It turns easily.

  She shakes her head. “The fool.”

  She steps inside, and I ease in after her. The room lies still. A banked fire glows in the hearth. Across the room, the bulky shape of a bed is tucked into an alcove. Rambaud’s soft, sleeping breaths are the only thing disturbing the silence.

  Rhia’s good arm moves, and her dagger flashes in the dim glow of the firelight. She crosses to the bed with soft, deliberate steps. I follow, claiming a candle from the mantel and lighting it.

  When I turn back to them, Rhia is standing above Rambaud, her dagger kissing his throat. She nods to me. I approach. We both look down at him. He’s sleeping with abandon, one arm thrown open, the soft hum of magic pulsing from the curve of his elbow. Rhia’s right. He is a fool.

  With careful fingers, I reach past his elbow, where the pillow lifts. The magic deepens, spitting at me. The smooth edge of a stone meets my fingers; I grip it and pull it quickly free. Rambaud sleeps on, undisturbed.

  I look down at the stone. It’s smooth, polished; a smoky gray like clouds banded together. It hums, but far less cruelly than any witch stone. I listen to the tone of it, fierce as steel. Perhaps it’s enchanted to protect Rambaud—or any bearer—from magical attack.

  It’s not prepared, however, to deal with simply being stolen by non-magical means. I balance it thoughtfully in my hand and clear my throat.

  There’s a soft cessation of breath. Then Rambaud opens his eyes.

  “If you call out, I’ll slit your throat,” Rhia murmurs.

  Rambaud’s eyes flick toward me. I raise an eyebrow, and he swallows, gingerly, his throat vulnerable against Rhia’s blade.

  “I have your stone,” I say. “If you think it might save you.”

  Slowly, he lifts one hand, and then, turning onto his back, the other. He lies there like a dog with his belly exposed. For the barest scrap of a moment, I almost pity him.

  “Get up.” I point at the carpet beside his bed; it occurs to me that he could have a dagger hidden under his pillow.

  Slowly, Rhia’s blade never leaving his throat, Rambaud climbs out of bed. He stands there, shivering, in a nightshirt, his legs bare. “Perhaps,” he says with some dignity, “I could have my dressing robe?”

  “Would you have been so humane, when we were your captives?” I ask.

  “I am not Euan Dromahair!” Then, with more composure, he says, “It seems to me I treated you with as much courtesy as possible, under the circumstances.”

  Though he can’t know it, his outburst reassures me. I find the dressing robe draped over a stool next to the bed and check its pockets and seams for a blade. Nothing. I hand it to him, and he slowly tugs it over his shoulders and belts it, Rhia never releasing her dagger from his neck.

  “I don’t want it to be said that I deprive my allies of their dignity,” I remark. “Regardless of how they’ve treated me and my friends.”

  Rambaud eyes me. “And to what exactly do I owe the pleasure of your company?”

  “We’re here to talk.” I park myself on the upholstered stool; it feels unspeakably good to sit down. “I apologize for the less-than-civilized method of entry, but we’re starved for choice.”

  I nod at Rhia to ease the pressure of the dagger, though she still keeps the tip kissing the back of Rambaud’s neck. He twitches inadvertently.

  “So,” I say, and his gaze moves back to me. I palm the stone, just for the pleasure of seeing his eyes narrow. “How are you enjoying my father’s company?”

  Rambaud lifts an eyebrow. “I’m glad I don’t have to claim him as family.”

  “He’s not exactly charming,” I agree. “Augustus and Phaedra Saranon don’t seem like particularly pleasant company, either. I’m not sure you’ve done a good job choosing your associates.”

  He gives a faint nod of acknowledgment. “Perhaps I should not have answered the letter.”

  The letter? I look at him more closely. “You mean they contacted you?”

  He actually laughs. “I may be bold, but I’m not that bold, Lady
Sophy. I’m afraid contacting your father—much less the Saranon siblings—did not occur to me. My own plans were much more modest.”

  “Philippe,” I say, and he nods.

  “Of course, as you know, Philippe fancies himself something of a radical. His mother tried to put a stop to that, though in fairness it can’t be said she did so with any care or discretion. I thought, given the opportunity to marry you, he might take the chance to put some of his rebel sentiments to work.”

  “And that’s what you would have wanted, in a king?” I say skeptically.

  Rambaud eases one shoulder up in a slight shrug. “After that initial attempt at rebellion, he’s remained loyal to his family, even if his mother gives him no reason to be. I was gambling that we’d get our needs met, too, if we applied the right kind of pressure. But he refused to wed. He has particular standards, does Manceau.”

  “I’m aware.” I tilt my head. “You can’t tell me you weren’t planning to overthrow me, though.”

  “There are more ways than one to win power over a queen,” Rambaud says mildly. “I prefer subtleties myself, but some of my allies beg to differ.”

  My mind has stuck on a particular point. “If the Saranons contacted you—”

  “Phaedra Saranon,” he says, and adds with disdain, “I am fairly sure such maneuvers are out of the scope of Augustus’s rather limited intelligence.”

  “Why on earth would Phaedra Saranon want to ally with you?”

  He shrugs—incrementally, since Rhia’s dagger is still pressing against his neck. “Presumably so I’d remove you from your throne, and Eren would be loyal once more to Paladis. Except she lost her bid for power in Ida, of course, and instead announced she was coming here with Euan Dromahair.”

  “Interesting.” Something nags at me, but I can’t quite put my finger on it. Perhaps it’s Phaedra’s apparent fascination with sorcery. I wonder if she’s the one who employed that temple novice to find us, not my father. “I admit I was expecting them to attack our sorcerers, not conscript them into fighting for them.”

  Rambaud’s eyebrows pinch together. “It was…unexpected.”

  I look at him. “What will you do once they learn magic has awakened in your daughter? That she has woken whatever sorcery lies in this object?” I hold up the stone; it pulses in my hand. “Will you let them use her, too?”

  He jerks forward. But Rhia follows just as fast with her dagger, and Rambaud hisses in pain. He stills. Touches his fingers to the back of his neck. They come away stained bright red, with two drops of blood.

  “Just a sting,” Rhia coos. “Since you couldn’t be troubled to stop Euan Dromahair from having me flogged in a public square.”

  Rambaud’s jaw clenches visibly. But he sits very still. Roughly, he says, “That stone’s been in my family for generations—since sorcery was first driven from these lands. They won’t discover the truth.”

  “Won’t they?” I raise an eyebrow. “Yet my friends managed to, and we’ve spent less time with you than they have. What will they do with her, that you’re so afraid to trust your own allies?”

  “She’s only a girl.” Rambaud closes his eyes. “She has no part in these machinations.”

  “I doubt Phaedra Saranon would feel the same way.”

  He looks at me. “What would you do with sorcerers, Queen Sophy? The people fear magic—”

  “The people fear what they’ve been made to fear. For instance, when some people fake assassination attempts by sorcerers. Or,” I add, even more sharply, “when they murder sorcerer refugees to frighten the queen.”

  He has the grace to look abashed.

  “Magic’s awakening throughout Eren and Caeris,” I go on. “Undoubtedly it will lead to fear and distrust at first, in some parts, but eventually people will be forced to make peace with the fact that their mothers and sons have power they don’t understand. And unlike Phaedra Saranon,” I add, “I will never use sorcerers to bolster my army, unless they choose to join.”

  “What will you do instead?” he asks, skeptical.

  “I’ll educate them.” When he stares, I explain, “Most sorcerers don’t even know how to use their own power. Educating them will make them more skilled and controlled, and less alarming.”

  “I don’t know about that,” he says drily. “A sorcerer in full possession of his power sounds fairly terrifying to those without.”

  I lean forward. “Not if laws are put in place regulating the practice.”

  “Laws.” Rambaud looks interested now, though he’s trying to conceal it. “Even governing the Caveadear?”

  Elanna might rage at me for it, but I nod. “Naturally. Now that she’s back in Eren, she’ll be the one who oversees such measures.”

  “So she’s back,” he says thoughtfully.

  “People will start remembering why they love magic now,” I say. “It helps when you’re presented with a legend come to life.”

  His eyes narrow, but I think he’s amused.

  “Then there is the matter of our government.” I look at him. “I understand the Caerisian system leaves something to be desired—and I sympathize, though we do have opportunity within our governance for discussion rather than blatant propaganda.”

  “Your Ruadan employed the technique so well,” he says comfortably. “I was merely imitating him.”

  “Mmm. I am certainly open to revisiting the old laws and customs, and making them more equitable for both Ereni and Caerisians.” I raise my eyebrows. “Somehow I doubt Euan Dromahair—not to mention the Saranons—are much interested in anything but a top-down monarchy. They’ll be bringing their friends from Ida here, won’t they? They’ll give away your lands and titles to Idaeans who despise you. They’re not interested in you, not really, even though you handed them Eren on a silver platter. They’ll conscript your children to be their soldiers, or their sorcerers. Your wealth and lineage won’t be enough to protect you anymore.”

  Rambaud’s head has lowered. For a long moment, he’s silent.

  I wait, though it makes my shoulders tense. He might laugh at me. He might summon his guards—the same ones who shot Alistar.

  But when he finally looks up at me, he’s frowning. “Veronique Manceau has told me that Euan and the Saranons must be removed. The other nobles talk of returning to Tinan, except their sons are being conscripted into Euan’s army. We’re trapped,” he says bleakly.

  “Not necessarily,” I say. “They might have brought some Paladisan soldiers, but they are the commanders. Most of the army is Ereni, or Caerisian. Like us.”

  “They have sorcerers.”

  “So do we.” I lean forward on my elbows. “Aristide Rambaud, if you ally with us, you will have the power of the entire land at your back. You will have Elanna Valtai, and Jahan Korakides, and the common people in whom magic is awakening. You’ll have me.”

  His gaze meets mine. “So you are a sorceress.”

  “A modest one, but I am. There,” I say, “you have my secret.”

  Now he’s the one who leans forward, and this time Rhia doesn’t chase him with her dagger. “And the future? What will you do with your child? Whom will you marry?”

  “I’ll give my child a queen’s education.” I bite down hard on my irritation that he’s decided to bring my choice into this conversation. If he wants to bargain over an unborn baby, so be it. “But she won’t be my heir unless the people elect her.”

  “And your consort?” he says.

  “I won’t marry Philippe Manceau,” I begin, even though it’s equally accurate to say that Philippe won’t marry me.

  There’s a glint in Rambaud’s eyes I don’t like. “The Ereni won’t accept Alistar Connell as their king.”

  “It is not for the people of Eren—or you—to say who I’ll marry.” I pause, and Rambaud’s eyebrow lifts. I draw in a shaky breath. “Alis
tar Connell is at this moment lying in a farmhouse with a mortal wound—one inflicted by your lackeys, I might add. I gave him my word that I would wed him if—when—he survived. Would you deny a dying man the right to wed the woman he loves?”

  “Of course not,” Rambaud says, though beneath his swift denial I can see his mind working, sifting through the few facts I have given him. Already he’ll be calculating what the likelihood is of Alistar’s survival—and realizing that if he dies, I’ll be free to marry. I shudder at the callous thought. Alistar hasn’t even drawn his final breath and here we are, bickering over him like a slab of meat.

  “I pledged myself to Alistar,” I say. “And I do not back down on my promises.”

  Rambaud studies me, long and thoughtful, as if he is really seeing me for the first time. At last he says, “I can see that, Lady Sophy. An offer of legislation on sorcery, but a refusal to marry anyone but the man you love. A plan to overthrow your own father and his supporters. You are full of surprises, Sophy Dunbarron.”

  I smile, though my free hand is clenched so tight my fingernails dig into my palms. “I just want to help my country.”

  He sighs. “I suppose this means we will have arguments over land rights, and whether peasants own their own plots…”

  “And all of the things that you and the Ereni nobles so strenuously objected to. Yes.” I lift my chin. “But it can be a discussion. A compromise. It doesn’t have to end in a bloody coup.”

  “That may not please all my friends,” he begins.

  I force myself not to roll my eyes. It seems just like Rambaud to turn our desperate situation into an opportunity to dicker over the details of future legislative changes.

  But before he can speak again, there’s a tap on the door. We all freeze.

  The door creaks open. “Papa?”

  A girl slips into the room on soft feet. She’s no more than ten, with long straight brown hair tangled over the shoulders of her robe, and dark, wide eyes. She looks from us to her father. Rhia’s shifted slightly, concealing the dagger.