by Callie Bates
I step out after him, into a din of noise. People are disembarking from the carriages behind us, and the guards are leading their horses over to the stables. I hear Rhia giving a stern lecture to Isley, whom she appointed as captain of the queen’s guard in her stead.
I peer back down the drive. “He isn’t here yet.”
“They broke that axle back in Portmason,” Alistar says, reassuringly. “It’s probably still giving them trouble.”
I shake my head. “I told Rambaud we shouldn’t put him in that gold carriage. It’s not meant for a cross-country expedition.”
“Oh, well.” Alistar grins at me and bounces Mag gently in his arms. She goes on sleeping, entirely oblivious. “Leontius is an emperor. I suppose we can wait for him.”
I find myself returning his smile. To tell the truth, it’s something of a relief to be so far ahead of the emperor of Paladis, who arrived last week for his first state visit to our newly renamed kingdom, Ard-Terre—named for the river Ard that unites both Eren and Caeris. Not that I don’t enjoy Leontius’s company—I do, very much—but, if possible, people insist on showing him even more deference than they do me. It gets exhausting. Lees, who is the mildest of people, prefers quiet and talk of gardening.
Perhaps here he can get it. Cerid Aven is large—large enough to comfortably house not only my retinue but an imperial one as well. And Elanna is just the person to discuss gardening with.
She’s come out to the front step now, a slender figure before the great house. “Sophy! Alistar!” Then she’s pelting toward us, embracing first me and then, more carefully, Alistar and the baby. She’s dressed for the occasion in a fetching yellow gown, though there are grass stains on her knees.
I seize her arm. “Let’s go in,” I whisper, “quickly, before anyone else follows!”
We race into the house, dodging footmen and guards and the housekeeper. The inside, however, is just as much a hubbub as outside. Demetra and the other refugees are gathered in the foyer, a circle of earnest faces. They wave to me but don’t approach.
“They’re practicing some sorcery to welcome Leontius,” Elanna explains. “An illusion meant to look like fireworks, but without the racket that frightens the dogs and wild creatures.”
We slip past the refugees, and the house staff straightening the vases of flowers and the ice buckets holding champagne. Back behind the stairs is a salon I remember well, transformed now with rows of chairs and a lectern at the front. New books crowd the walls.
“This will be the main lecture hall,” Elanna says, spreading her arms. “What do you think?”
“I love it, El.” I beam at her. “You’ve done marvelous work.”
She smiles. She and Jahan have been busy these last few months, transforming Cerid Aven into a school for sorcery. Some of the refugees have volunteered to work as tutors, and Rhia’s aunt Granya Knoll has come down from the mountains with masses of books.
“We may have to expand,” El says seriously. “More people keep signing up every day!”
There’s a noise at the other side of the room: Jahan comes in. “There you are!” He embraces me and pats Alistar on the back—gently, on account of the sleeping Mag.
“How’s married life?” Alistar asks them with a twinkle.
El and Jahan look at each other, and they both begin to grin. “Well,” Jahan says, “El invited every sorcerer she knows to join us in our house…”
“But I told Jahan I’d have another house built for us,” Elanna says with satisfaction. “A little one, by the Sentry Rock, just for ourselves.”
“But we might ask the same of you,” Jahan points out. “How is it to be wed?”
Alistar and I exchange a glance, and I start laughing while he makes a face. “I might not have agreed if Sophy had mentioned there would be royal duties involved. Lists, letters, functions, people always demanding you help them or just send a little message to the queen…”
“I promise you’ll learn to love it,” I tease him.
“I don’t know, Sophy,” he says with mock seriousness. “That may be one promise you aren’t able to keep.”
I just smile. He doesn’t dislike it as much as he professes—though when the Ereni ministers predictably made their protests, I thought he might change his mind. So we slipped away early one morning to the temple to Aera and had High Priest Granpier bind the cloth around our hands in secret, just like lovers in a story. When the ministers found out a few hours later, it was too late; we were already wed. We salved their damaged pride by throwing a party for the entire city.
“Whenever I find myself growing irritated, I think of the looks on the ministers’ faces when they found out we’d married without their supervision,” Alistar tells Elanna and Jahan. “It was marvelous.”
The door squeaks, and a boy slips into the room. Lathiel’s grown taller since I last saw him, but he seems as diffident as ever behind his flop of dark hair. He looks shyly at us, then addresses his brother and sister-in-law. “Is Rayka here?”
“He’s coming with Emperor Leontius,” I answer, and look at Jahan. “Some friends of yours have come as well—Pantoleon and Tullea?”
A smile transforms Jahan’s face. “They came!”
But Lathiel has gone still, and even though he’s filled out and grown tall, the faintest tremor runs through him. He whispers to Jahan, “Not Father?”
“No,” Jahan says firmly. “Never Father. I wrote him back and forbade it. Though”—he glances at El—“one day we’ll have to return to Britemnos and settle affairs there. But you won’t have to go with us, Lathiel. You never have to see him again.”
Lathiel lets out a breath of release.
Jahan moves as if to ruffle his hair, then holds himself back. He smiles instead. “Let’s show everyone the other lecture halls, shall we?”
They move out, Alistar following with the still-sleeping Mag, but Elanna catches me back. Her brow is knit with slight concern. “Is Alistar…?”
“He’s better,” I say. “Though sometimes he sees people no one else does. It unnerves the ministers no end.”
El raises a brow. “Who’s to say those people aren’t really there?”
I look at her. She seems so at ease here, and the sound of her has steadied, green and vibrant once again. It’s strange to think I envied her so long, this woman who is more comfortable out in the green land than with people. “How are your headaches?” I ask.
“They’re better.” One corner of her mouth tucks down. Quietly, she says, “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to do what I once did again. Well, perhaps an army of walking trees on a particularly special occasion. The land is recovering, and the magic of it…” She looks at me. “I think its magic has spread instead into the people who are receptive to it.”
“I think so, too.” I shake my head; it’s extraordinary how many would-be sorcerers have come forward in the year since we defeated Euan. “Perhaps it’s for the best that you can’t. With this school, everyone would want you to do extraordinary displays of magic!”
“That might be,” she says wryly. Then, with a smile, “Teofila came, didn’t she? And Hugh?”
I nod. “They were farther back in the line. I expect they’ve unloaded by now.”
“But I suppose Victoire and Philippe remained in Laon.”
“With the two of them managing the south while I’m gone, I’ll hardly have anything to do when I return,” I say with a laugh. But El looks regretful; she misses her friend. I add, “I’ll make sure Victoire comes north soon.”
“Tell her to bring Philippe. I want to see the two of them together.” El gives a wicked grin, then glances toward the door. “I do want to see Mother and Hugh before the formalities begin. Do you mind if I…?”
“Go find them.” I grin at her. “You don’t need to show me around.”
She disappears throug
h the door, and I’m left alone in the sudden silence of the large lecture hall. I walk past the chairs, tapping their backs with my fingertips. Ruadan used to host parties in this salon. It’s the room where I first met Finn, when he told us of Euan.
Strange to think of it, and of my father, who is ensconced in his pleasant seaside prison. Not behind bars, because that is no longer necessary. I put a hand to my throat. The guilt won’t leave me, no matter how many times I remind myself of Euan’s cruelty, no matter how often I tell myself that this is the cost I must bear. He is still my father, and I took away his mind. He is simple as a child—simpler, perhaps, for he shows only the dullest curiosity. His nurses tell me that he appreciates clear days, and the sound of the sea. He can watch butterflies chasing in the garden for hours. The nurses don’t fear him, for he can scarcely dress himself. He can form only the most basic words.
Perhaps it is what he deserved, but I did this to him. And I must live with that.
Leontius told me that he had also exiled his brother Augustus, whom we shipped back to Paladis after our victory. Unlike Euan, he is guarded—watched at all hours of the day and night. Leontius’s eyes met mine when he told me, and I saw in them the echo of my own guilt. They are our family, whatever they have done.
With an effort, I shake off the thought and open the glass doors into the garden. I step through into the clean, bright air of Caeris. It’s quiet here, and the sun beats down over the young spring plants. I turn my face up to its warmth. I’ve learned to make Laon and Barrody comfortable, but this is home. There is the Valtai Stone, under its shelter; there, an old oak I used to climb; there, a swing on which someday we’ll push our daughter.
And there, standing on the other side of the gardens, is Alistar, holding her.
I make my way over to them, putting my arms around Alistar’s back and nestling my chin onto his shoulder. We lean together like that for a long moment, drinking in the sunlight, the quiet, the growing plants. The child still sleeping in his arms.
Then he says softly, “I thought I heard her.” He nods toward the far end of the garden, where there is a tangle of rosebushes and early-spring flowers, and birds trilling.
“I don’t see anyone,” I say, but I’m careful to keep my tone light. Gentle. We’ve gotten used to this by now.
“A woman’s walking there. She’s singing. It’s a lullaby, I think. The one you always sing to Mag.” Softly, he says, “She has golden hair. She’s wearing an old coat with patched elbows. She’s tall, bright-eyed. Bold.”
My throat closes. “Does she look like a rebel queen?” I ask when I can speak.
Alistar studies her, this woman I cannot see. Then, as if he can see the true question in my heart, he says, “She looks content.”
I close my eyes. Sometimes I envy him the sight; sometimes I think it would comfort me to see them again—Finn, Ruadan, Ingram Knoll. My mother. Even the Butcher. Yet perhaps it is enough that Alistar sees. That he tells me, so tenderly.
He’s turned to face me. “Look,” he murmurs.
I look down, and he passes our daughter into my arms. I hug her weight and warmth against my chest. Her small pink fingers are fluttering, as if in time to music.
For a moment, I hear it, too. The whisper of a woman’s voice, carried on the wind. The skirl of music, a breath of hope on the breeze. Here, and gone. My chest aches, and at the same time I’m smiling. I look down into the garden, and for the barest instant I think I glimpse the movement of a long blue coat. The fall of golden hair.
Then it is gone and I am standing here with the baby I named for her, and the man I love wrapping us both in his arms, and my heart is so full.
I am ready to be brave, Mother.
Our child opens her eyes. The sky reflects in them, a deep and infinite blue.
To Nan
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I’m so grateful to everyone who has had a part in the making of this book. So much gratitude to my wonderful editor, Anne Groell, for encouraging me to write a series with multiple narrators and for championing Sophy. Many thanks as well to my equally wonderful agent, Hannah Bowman, for support, guidance, and feedback on pregnancy issues!
Thank you to the fantastic team at Del Rey Books for all their hard work, particularly Isabella Biedenharn in publicity, and to the art department for gracing these books with gorgeous covers, and to Diane Hobbing for the lovely interior design. I’m also grateful to Sam Bradbury and everyone at Hodder in the UK. Thank you also to the team at Liza Dawson Associates.
Particular thanks to Peggy and Linda for advising me on several medical matters. (Any errors are mine!)
I’m grateful to everyone who supports me in daily and writing life, especially my parents, Nancy, my sister Eowyn, and my soul sisters Licia and Martha (and Joel!). Thank you to Julia for writing meetups and non-writing adventures! Thank you to Denise, Peggy (again!), Bernie, Deb, Jim, Mel, Sarah, Katlyn, Pam, the staff of the Discovery Center, and everyone who has helped celebrate several years of books.
Last—but far from least—I’m grateful to the readers. Thank you.
BY CALLIE BATES
The Waking Land
The Memory of Fire
The Soul of Power
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CALLIE BATES is the author of The Waking Land, The Memory of Fire, and The Soul of Power. She is also a harpist, certified harp therapist, sometimes artist, and nature nerd. When she’s not creating, she’s hitting the trails or streets and exploring new places. She lives in the Upper Midwest.
calliebates.com
Facebook.com/calliebywords
Twitter: @calliebywords
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