The Soul of Power

by Callie Bates

  I am enough to save the people I love.

  The fragile wisp is tugging free, and a wave of dizziness sweeps through me. I stumble, lowering the flute from my lips. Something hot and bright and tremulous is rushing through me. I’m panting. I open my eyes. My father has fallen to the floor, his arms splayed over his head like a felled tree. The wisp still clings to him, faint but there.

  I put the flute back to my lips—and stop. If I play my father’s soul out of his body, he will be the first person I have killed. One of the only people, besides Grenou and Phaedra, who have lost their lives to this coup. And I will have his blood on my hands. He’s my father, after all, even if I wish to all the gods he weren’t.

  But I don’t want to bring back the man who tried to steal my throne; who has hurt, so thoughtlessly, so many people. I don’t want to bring him back the way he was.

  Maybe there is another way to do it.

  So I put the flute to my lips and I play a new tune, ignoring the pang in my lower back, and three small kicks from the baby, and the noise of the people behind me in the chamber. I play while Euan Dromahair’s soul slowly sinks back into his body, but I don’t play him back into the fullness of who he once was. No, I weave the song of a man whose anger has been burned out of him. A man who doesn’t demand kingship or bodies or power. I play into being whatever parts of my father remain when the cruelty has been removed—and the rest I force out.

  His soul is gathering a humming density now, and I know I can let him go. I can play another song. One that isn’t for him.

  It’s the song of a woman who set afire every room she entered. Whose flame burned so brightly people wanted to possess it; who could not be dimmed even when her rebellion was lost, but who ran for her life across Caeris until she was consumed by a conflagration she could not stop. And I play for her daughter, who ran at her side through the wilds of Caeris; the girl whom Teofila taught to trust again, and to sing. The girl who fell in love with a bold Caerisian boy, though she pretended it was only a dalliance. The woman who claimed her father’s crown, and who lost it. Who asked the people to follow her one last time.

  The song of my mother, and me. The women who, though he tried, he could never dim nor drown out.

  And as I draw to the end of the music, another thread slips inside. It’s the yellow, vibrant pulse of a child not yet born. The anticipation of a life yet to come.

  I lower the flute. The throb of the song lingers in the room, in my blood. I look down at my father, whose eyes have opened ever so slightly. He’s watching me, confused. Uncomprehending. Perhaps drawing him to the edge of death snapped something within him—or perhaps when I drew the old anger and cruelty from him, it left little behind. Surely this can’t be all there is to him without it. I can’t have taken that much from him. He looks shrunken, defused, lying there on the floor.

  Rhia has snatched the bayonet away from him, and I startle as a man moves past me. He kneels beside Euan Dromahair and ties his hands behind his back before my father even thinks to move.

  “Alistar,” I whisper. Did Demetra bring him here?

  He turns his head. Smiles at me. “Sophy Dunbarron.”

  I take a step forward on my aching feet. “You remembered.”

  “How could I forget you?” He rises to his feet, holding out his hands, while Rhia stands guard over my father. The sound of him resonates into the room, as full and strong as it has ever been; the sound that is most like home. “I am beginning to remember more, but it’s your name I recalled first.”

  I look into his face. He looks as he always has, the shadow of a beard on his cheeks, the creases around his eyes from his easy laughter, the quirk of his black eyebrows. Yet there’s a shard of something different in his eyes. Something I haven’t seen; a world I’ve only imagined.

  I reach out and touch my hand to his cheek. He turns it over and kisses my palm.

  I become aware of people moving around us. Rhia is barking an order, and Elanna has come to stand behind me, saying, “The queen will answer your demands in due course. Be patient!” Jahan is kneeling over Rambaud, healing the wound he took to the gut, Lathiel at his side.

  And there is a voice whispering into my mind—a woman’s voice, all the way from Baedon. Sophy, Teofila says. Sophy!

  Alistar, meanwhile, is looking up, above my left shoulder. The faintest frown tucks his brows together. “Your music must have drawn them, Sophy.”

  The back of my neck prickles. “Drawn who?”

  “The ancestors,” he says, and then he looks at me, flashing a smile. “Don’t worry, Soph. They’re only here to watch.”

  So he’s seeing the spirits of the dead now. I find myself starting to laugh. Now the ministers really won’t like my marrying him. But for Alistar Connell, I am willing to face down an outraged Ereni or two. I take his hand.

  Behind me, Elanna is saying, “You can speak to me—the Caveadear. The queen is busy.”

  I look into Alistar’s eyes. They’ve creased; he’s starting to laugh.

  I’m smiling. “You look more yourself.”

  “I don’t feel myself. I…” He closes his eyes briefly. “I feel bigger.”

  We both do, I think. We both stand here, carrying the traces of the bone flute song. We are both more than we have ever been.

  “Alistar Connell.” I take both his hands. “I have something to say to you.”

  The gleam in his eyes turns wicked, and suddenly there is the Alistar I love, himself once more. “Are you proposing to me?”

  “Yes,” I say, “and no.” I lean close, breathing in his scent, his slightly bemused smile. “I promised you marriage, Alistar Connell, and I want it more than anything. Because I’ve finally realized that as the queen of Eren and Caeris, I’m the one who makes the rules. I don’t have to marry for duty or advantage. I can choose to marry for love, and I do. I choose you. Will you have me?”

  He’s smiling now. “I will always have you, Sophy Dunbarron.”

  “But I’m also asking for something more than marriage. Something even bigger.” I look into his eyes, with their new, unfathomable gleam. “I want to know if you’re willing to be the father of my child. I want to know if you’ll raise her by my side, if you’ll stand by me when she’s born, if you’ll coach her through her first steps and her first words.”

  His lips open, but I hold him tighter, forestalling him. Fiercely, I say, “I want our daughter to grow up knowing she has a father who will love her.”

  “I will always love her,” Alistar promises. His eyes are gleaming bright.

  “And you will always be there for her,” I press. “Even when it’s been a long night, or some duty is demanding you be elsewhere, if she needs you—”

  “I swear I’ll be there. For her, and—” He leans closer still, pressing his forehead to mine. “—for you. I accept your proposal of marriage, and your proposal of fatherhood, Sophy Dunbarron. I always will.”

  I’m smiling so hard I can’t speak. So I simply take our joined hands and lower them to my stomach. There’s a soft flutter, so subtle I’m not even sure Alistar can feel it. But then he looks at me. I know we’re both grinning like fools. I know my head aches and so does my back, and the baby needs me to rest. I know I have a room of Ereni and Caerisians to quell, and a kingdom to tend to, and a surrogate mother growing more and more irritated by the fact that I haven’t answered her summons.

  But just for this moment, I draw Alistar Connell’s face down to mine, and I let the world go on around us.

  * * *

  —

  BUT FINALLY THE world can’t be left alone any longer. I turn from Alistar to the ruined salon, drawing in a tired breath. Rambaud is sitting up from the floor, looking pale, with Jahan and Demetra both supporting him. Elanna passes me a hand mirror, all the while not breaking from her steady argument with Philippe’s mother, Veronique,
over possible changes to the process of receiving a noble title.

  I shelter the small mirror between Alistar’s body and my own, and look down. It’s Teofila’s careworn face that reflects back at me from the mirror, of course; she must finally have summoned Elanna when I didn’t answer. She’s somewhere bright and warm. The wide veranda behind her is filled with sun.

  “We took the palace,” I tell her.

  That was quick work. She returns my smile. And El—? You’re together…

  “She’s fine, and so is Jahan.” Or they will be. I glance at Elanna, as tenacious as ever in her too-large greatcoat, her hair spilling loose from its knot. I don’t know how much Phaedra’s ploy damaged her, not to mention the land itself. But for now, it’s enough to tell Teofila that she’s whole. Safe. “We all are.”

  Teofila’s intent gaze has marked my hesitation, but she doesn’t press. We made our way here with little incident, and I’ve met with Queen Sylvestra. She’s a bit more, shall we say, querulous than I remembered, but she’s willing to consider an alliance. Though she has certain demands…

  “Does she, now?” I’m amused despite myself.

  She insists that if sorcery is the way of the future, she needs her own court sorcerer. Teofila casts her gaze heavenward. She wishes us to send someone to her.

  “Well, tell her she’ll have to wait for a volunteer.”

  I’ll do my best, though I doubt she’ll like that.

  I look into her face, so full of the strength that raised me from girlhood; the strength that lost, and regained, Elanna twice. I say, “Did you find your family?”

  A soft smile touches her lips. There’s love in it, and regret. I did. My parents have grown old, and my brother’s children do not know me. But we are here, together, for now. She looks at me. Tell me, is Hugh—?

  “He’s here.” Alistar nudges me and points. Hugh himself is wading through the crowd toward us, his gaze preoccupied. I say, “I’ll let you talk to him yourself.”

  Hugh approaches, and I push the mirror into his hands. He looks down, befuddled, and then he sees Teofila. The lines of his face, which a moment ago looked so tired to me, soften with hope and relief. “There you are,” he says softly, as if he’s already forgotten my presence, and Alistar’s, and indeed the rest of the room.

  I let myself look at them for a moment—Teofila caught in the small mirror, and Hugh cupping it before his own face. My heart pinches. I press Hugh’s shoulder. “Tell her to come home soon.”

  He nods without taking his eyes off the mirror.

  “Sophy!”

  It’s Rhia at my other side, tired and impatient. “They want you outside. People are gathering in the inner courtyard. They want you to make a speech.”

  Philippe’s mother, Veronique, leans out of her conversation with Elanna. “You must promise them you’ll give the Ereni more power in government! That was your bargain with us, and we’ll hold you to it.”

  “Naturally,” I say, glancing at Rambaud. He’s listening to our conversation, even though his whole body appears tight with pain. He gives the smallest nod. I know I will have to take him to task for his murder of the sorcerer refugee, Ciril’s friend—but that will be an unpleasant job for another day. I turn back to Countess Veronique. Behind her, I glimpse Lord Devalle. He’s hovering in the doorway, as if he doesn’t quite dare to come in. I pitch my words to reach him as well as her. “More but equal power. You have my word on it.”

  I move past her before she can protest further, sweeping El, Alistar, and Rhia along with me.

  But before I reach the door, Devalle holds up his hand. “Your Majesty,” he says, and bows.

  I wait, but he says nothing more. When he straightens, there’s a kind of fear in his eyes, and I know that even if I’ve promised to give more power to the Ereni people, I am the one who really wields it, right now.

  “Devalle,” I say at last, “we have not exactly been friends. But I believe in second chances, for the people of Eren and Caeris are giving me one. I would like to give you one, as well.”

  He looks entirely surprised, and bows again. “I am deeply grateful, Your Majesty.”

  I really should correct him on the honorific. But just this once, I decide, I’ll let him keep calling me Your Majesty.

  I move past him into the corridor. It’s quieter here—people have scattered to the inner courtyard, to await my arrival on the balcony. The palace shows signs of the catastrophic magic Phaedra attempted: A long crack runs through the parquet floor, and the paintings hang askew on the walls.

  “There’s rubble in the streets,” Elanna says, following my line of thought. She looks exhausted, her eyes dark. “I can’t even tell the scale of it yet, only that it runs from here to Barrody and perhaps even Dalriada. It’s as if she tried to tear up the foundation of the earth.”

  Ours is a magical land, so I suppose in a way, Phaedra did. I halt our little party in the corridor, looking more closely at El. “Are you…?”

  “Oh, Sophy,” she says, and instinctively I hug her. She speaks into my shoulder. “I don’t know. I don’t feel numb, the way I did when my magic was blocked. But my head aches. My mind aches. When I feel out into the land, it hurts. The land is in pain.”

  I can feel this, inside her, the green ribbon of her magic frayed thin, stripped with pulses of red pain. I hum a little, and she presses her face into my coat. “It will heal,” I promise her. “And in the meantime, the people need their Caveadear.”

  She smiles at that, though faintly. There’s movement in the corridor behind us; Jahan and his brother Lathiel emerge from the Diamond Salon, catching us up. Jahan takes one look at El and puts his arm around her shoulders. She hugs him back but doesn’t crumble. She looks at me and nods. “Are we ready?”

  “One more thing.” I turn to Rhia, who’s chewing on her lower lip. “We no longer have a warden of the mountains.”

  Rhia’s eyes widen. “Not me,” she says automatically.

  Elanna folds her arms. “Why not you?”

  “You could at least put your name forward,” Alistar points out. “It doesn’t mean they’ll elect you. I don’t know why people would want a mad Knoll any—”

  I smack his arm, and he stops, looking pleased with himself. “Rhia,” I say, “the tripartite rule might have suited Caeris, but it doesn’t suit Eren and Caeris—as Rambaud and his followers made abundantly clear. I think we’ll have to split the warden’s duties between more than one person. It would be a new position we’re creating, one that’s never been done before. You could be the one who fills it.”

  Rhia looks shifty. “If I’m elected.”

  “Yes,” Jahan says drily, “that will be a key step.”

  We all look at her, and Rhia looks back. She swallows. “I suppose—well, if I have to—I’ll think about it.”

  “That’s all we’re asking.” I wink at Elanna, who grins.

  Rhia sees it—and now that the pressure is off her, predictably erupts. “It’s so typical of you southerners! You can’t leave a Knoll to simply fulfill her duty as the head of the queen’s bodyguard. It’s always improvement, and can we do better, not are we doing well enough now…”

  She stumps off ahead of us down the corridor, and Jahan whispers, “How much do you bet she’ll do it?”

  Alistar shakes his head, but he’s laughing. “Never bet against a Knoll.”

  “She lost her father,” El says, more soberly. “It’ll help her work through her grief.”

  “You mean it’ll keep her busy growling at people,” Alistar says, and Jahan snorts.

  But El’s gaze has caught mine, and I hear the flare of grief within her. I know we’re both thinking about fathers, and loss. Neither of us says anything. It’s enough to know that someone else shares this, and has seen it in me.

  We move on, to the balcony at last. My ministers ar
e there, or some of them—Victoire, Juleane, High Priest Granpier.

  And Philippe. I reach out a hand to him, and he clasps it. He’s dirty from prison, his hair wild, and he looks now like the rebel he once pretended to be, that night he and I slipped into Rambaud’s party. Perhaps the rebel he wanted to be, before his mother stopped him.

  “Philippe Manceau,” I say, “I am glad you’re my friend.”

  He smiles. “I’m glad to be your friend, Sophy Dunbarron.”

  “I hope you’ll continue to be my minister of public works.” I glance at Victoire, who is waiting beside the balustrade, her gaze flickering toward us, and though she’s obviously trying not to appear interested, the quivering sound of her tells me differently. “Perhaps you and Victoire could work together.”

  “I’d like that,” he says, and I hear a giddy resonance pulse from him, even as the tips of his ears turn red.

  I hide a smile and turn to the others, embracing Victoire, Juleane, Granpier. My feet are swollen, and my back throbs. My body—the baby—demand rest, yet at the same time I feel vibrant, almost electrified. Below us in the courtyard, voices are roaring, “The queen! The queen!” and “Justice! Equality!” and someone, quite unexpectedly, is singing a ballad. Each one of them possesses a song, a tone that weaves and dives among the others, a kind of madness that turns to melody. It’s the song of this land; the soul of her people. It is our true power, both theirs and mine.

  I step out to the end of the balcony, to speak to my people.

  EPILOGUE

  We’re here at last. Alistar opens the door of the coach, and the smell of spring blossoms inside. He climbs out first, onto the gravel drive of Cerid Aven, turning back so I can pass Mag to him. She’s slept the last few hours and she doesn’t even wake now, but settles against Alistar’s shoulder, the pale mauve of her eyelids moving in a dream. Her small hands float free. She lays against her father, utterly trusting.