The Plan Commences

by Kristen Ashley

  So he took her hand and led her back up the beach.

  Queen Ha-Lah

  Aboard The Finnie

  OFF THE WEST COAST OF FIRENZE

  Aramus was nuzzling my neck and I was stroking his back when the cheer rent the air.

  We both stilled completely.

  Then my husband lifted his head and looked down at me.

  My, but he was handsome.

  “Do you think they—?” I began.

  “No.”

  “But the timing can’t be a coincidence.”

  “None of my men can see through wood, baby,” he murmured, but his head twitched just as I heard it.

  The high-pitched, happy shriek of dolphins.

  A goodly number of them.

  He slid out, I did not like losing him (in the slightest), but I did like how he gathered me to him, wrapping a blanket around us both, and pulled us to a porthole.

  We looked out and saw a large pod of dolphins flirting with the surface of the sea as they swam away.

  “Right, well then, I guess they know,” Aramus muttered, humor in his tone.

  I looked at his profile. “Should I be mortified?”

  He turned his head to gaze at me. “No.”

  “I feel like I should be mortified.”

  His big body started shaking my body when he started laughing.

  Then his big body covered mine since he pulled me down to the bed with him on top of me.

  And he was still shaking with laughter.

  “So, apparently, the dolphins will keep us company when I join with my wife,” he remarked.

  “Apparently,” I mumbled.

  He was still laughing, his eyes warm and dancing.

  I loved to see that in his gaze.

  Nevertheless, I rolled my own eyes.

  When I rolled them back, he was no longer laughing, and he’d lifted his hand to tangle it in the curls by the side of my head.

  “It was not the splendor I had hoped, my love. It went too fast. But next time—”

  I felt my eyes narrow. “What words are these you say?”

  He closed his mouth.

  “I will never forget it,” I vowed.

  His expression gentled. “Ha-Lah.”

  “Never, not in my life.”

  “My Ha-Lah,” he whispered.

  “You are more beautiful out of clothes than in them,” I declared.

  At that, my husband grinned an arrogant grin.

  “Though next time, I would like to maybe get my hand around what is mine before you flip me on my back and take over,” I shared.

  “I’ll remind you that you did not protest that maneuver in the slightest, wife.”

  “I’d had my breath knocked out of me.”

  His laughter this time was audible, and he forced through it, “Liar.”

  “It’s true!” I kept lying.

  “My queen commanded me to take her. She did not command me to let her grab hold of my cock.”

  “You’re too handsome and your body is too pleasing. We’ll never go slowly if you take your clothes off.”

  “Shall I get dressed?” he offered.

  “No,” I snapped.

  He kissed me, light, but wet, doing it through a smile, and I liked all that very much.

  Especially the smile.

  Well, no, especially the kiss.

  Actually, both equally.

  I did not like it when he stopped, therefore I frowned at him.

  He was not frowning at me, he was gazing at me tenderly.

  “Now, my queen, do you doubt you please me in all ways?” he asked quietly.

  It was my turn to feel warm and good humored and tender.

  And arrogant.

  And powerful.

  And everything.

  I did not gloat.

  I said, “Thank you for the splendor, my husband.”

  He appeared perplexed.

  “Do you think we’re done?” he queried.

  “We aren’t?”

  “Very much no.”

  I stretched out under him.

  His eyes flared.

  And I lied yet again, “But I feel most lethargic.”

  “That’s all right,” he replied, then he buried his face in my neck, and under my ear, he whispered, “I’ll do all the work.”

  He ran his teeth down my neck.

  And then he did as he promised.

  58

  The Final Choice

  Queen Mercy

  The Bark Parlor, Formal Receiving Rooms, First Floor, Birchlire Castle, Notting Thicket

  WODELL

  “Well, if that wouldn’t be appropriate, I really can’t say.”

  Queen Elpis was in a snit, Mercy saw.

  But really, incense?

  In a temple?

  Revolting.

  “There must be something else that would make this more…homely to Farah,” she remarked, ignoring their other companion in the room, Melisse, studying her with disapproving eyes.

  But…please.

  Censure from a Nadirii?

  The woman resided in a realm where no men were allowed. There was a reason for that, of course, but Nadirii lived in a culture defined by bias. She could hardly cast judgement against Mercy wishing to abide by Dellish traditions at a bloody royal wedding, for the gods’ sakes.

  “As I explained,” Elpis replied impatiently, “most Firenz wedding ceremonies take place in nature. A favorite spot of the couple, or of the bride, or the groom. The bride chooses colors she enjoys and decorates in those as she sees fit. A priest or priestess presides, the one closest to the bride, or the couple. Though normally, it is a priest or priestess of The Grace.”

  “A priest of Wohden will reside over True’s nuptials,” Mercy stated implacably. “A future king of Wodell is married under the eyes of our god of power.”

  “Of course,” Elpis murmured.

  “So obviously, that will not change,” Mercy decreed.

  “As, I will note, I did not suggest it should. I simply suggested, since this will be an affair of some pageantry, which is not the Firenz way, perhaps some rose or cedar incense could be burned, a tribute to The Grace. Either scent most assuredly reminding Farah of home.”

  “We will have roses,” Mercy pointed out, and they would, tens of thousands of them. “Won’t that do?”

  “Roses are not considered a tribute to our gods,” Elpis explained. “But a gift from them.”

  Mercy fought sniffing her disapproval.

  “I suggest you reconsider her gown, Your Grace,” Melisse suggested…again.

  “That would be highly inappropriate,” Mercy retorted…again.

  “Farah is very beautiful, and many hues I’m sure suit her,” Melisse stated. “But I would think something more robust, and Firenz, like wine or currant, would not only be reminiscent of home, but of her king. Not to mention, it would be more suitable for her coloring.”

  “Every future queen of Wodell wears pale green,” Mercy returned.

  “All right then, as green is the color of the royal standard, then perhaps something deeper, say juniper,” Melisse proposed. “Or something richer, for instance, emerald or jade.”

  “The tradition of royal weddings is centuries old,” Mercy replied. “Not to mention,” she went on acidly, “the gown has been weeks in the making and still is not finished. We cannot start a new one now. There’s not enough time.”

  And, not to mention, there wasn’t enough money.

  Her husband was going to announce an increase on taxes as it was in order to pay for the flowers, and the bunting, the ribbons, the catering, the wine, etcetera.

  The cake that was being made as an exact replica of Birchlire Castle cost nearly as much as the gown, the bodice of which was crusted with seed pearls, for bloody sakes.

  Fortunately, the common folk enjoyed the pomp of a royal wedding, for somehow, it did not occur to them that they paid for it.

  Indeed, the city was teeming with excitement
, something that shocked Mercy, for they knew their new princess would be Firenz.

  And more shocking, as the days went on, this excitement seemed to grow exponentially.

  She could not imagine why.

  Though she was glad it was, for that would soften the blow of tax increases.

  Elpis drew a sharp, audible breath through her nose, gaining Mercy’s attention, and Mercy watched her look out the window, her hands folded in her lap, her back straight, her face composed, but Mercy still knew she was seething.

  She did not care.

  How True could have arranged this rubbish was beyond her.

  “Then the wedding portrait,” Melisse pressed doggedly. “They could sit for it at one of Prince True’s favorite spots in the gardens. That’s in nature, as is Firenz tradition.”

  Was she mad?

  “The wedding portrait always depicts the future king seated in his throne in the throne room with his bride standing behind him, as is the place for any princess and definitely queen.”

  Melisse sighed.

  A servant walked in.

  Mercy turned irate eyes to the man.

  He blanched at her expression but bowed low, holding out a gleaming, intricately carved wooden tray.

  “A message from His Grace, the Royal Highness, Prince True,” he announced.

  She lifted her hand his way.

  The man came forward, head still bowed, arm out proffering the tray.

  She took the folded message on top, and he backed away, leaving the room.

  She unfolded it and stared at the words.

  True had sent a bird.

  There was an established shorthand for use in such messages, as birds could not carry missives that were paragraphs long.

  Even so, this message was unusually short.

  Even for a bird.

  Send a royal summons to the charmed folk immediately.

  He meant, invite them to the wedding.

  She clenched her teeth.

  Now, her son would allow incense.

  She was wondering, as she had since that scene at the breakfast table some days ago, where she had gone wrong with her boy.

  He was sleeping with that harlot, perhaps that was it.

  She had him drunk on her cunt.

  “Perhaps we can resume these discussions tomorrow,” Melisse said, breaking into Mercy’s annoyed thoughts.

  “I cannot tomorrow,” Elpis replied. “Silence has arranged for a docent at the library to take me on a tour of some murals my daughter-in-law particularly likes in the city.”

  Well, bully for you, Mercy thought.

  But of course Silence would do that.

  Elpis had a daughter-in-law who was proper, respectful and did not endeavor to bewitch her son with her charms and then turn him against his mother.

  Elpis pinned Mercy with her eyes. “And I’m glad for some entertainment arranged by my queen.”

  Her point was not veiled.

  Mercy hadn’t exactly been spending her days regaling the Relict Queen Elpis of Firenze with amusements.

  But Mercy did not care about that either.

  She had a great deal to do, and it wasn’t all planning a wedding. She didn’t have time to entertain a guest she did not invite to the castle.

  “I’m sure you’ll enjoy that greatly,” she said.

  “I’m sure I will,” Elpis murmured, rising gracefully from her chair. She dipped her chin to Melisse as she moved across the room. “Always a pleasure.” Her gaze came to Mercy and she simply said, “Mercy,” as her farewell.

  Gods.

  The Firenz.

  She would be happy when this was all over, and she only had one of them to deal with.

  Elpis wasn’t two steps out of the room before Melisse spoke.

  “Have you seen G’Seph?”

  “No,” Mercy answered.

  “Curious,” Melisse said quietly.

  Hardly.

  “When those priests are in the city, they like to go to their temples,” Mercy informed her.

  And they did.

  To collect their tithes to take to Go’Doan.

  “Hmm,” Melisse hummed while rising. “Your Grace, I’m sorry to say I shall need to leave you as well.”

  Mercy nodded.

  Melisse then moved closer to Mercy, not the door, and she felt her brows draw together as the woman did so.

  “You have,” she said quietly, “singlehandedly, for years, kept this realm safe from rack and ruin.”

  Mercy stared up at her in shock.

  Melisse carried on, “It is not only a shame, it is shameful that your subtle, brave, intelligent, quiet, but in times heroic efforts will not be recorded. In generations to come, no one will know who held Wodell safe for the reign of King True. Alas, this has been the lot of many women throughout history.”

  Mercy found she was having difficulty with her breathing, considering it had escalated alarmingly.

  “But regardless of that, you must know you leave a legacy. A legacy of a kingdom that is whole, if not thriving as it should, to your son.” Her voice dipped. “And you have left a son who will make it thrive.”

  Mercy said not a word as she concentrated on regulating her breath.

  And concentrating on every syllable from Melisse’s lips.

  No one, not a single soul, had remarked on what she had done.

  “You have not nurtured love and devotion from your son,” she went on. “You have built respect and loyalty. Do nothing to prejudice that, Your Grace. He is who he is, but he is also who you made him. There is a great deal to take pride in that. You have given your country everything, Queen Mercy, everything,” she stressed, her message clear.

  She had sacrificed much.

  Including being a mother to her son.

  All so Wodell would have a good and just king.

  No one had ever commented on this either.

  What she had given.

  And what she had lost.

  “Do not make that for naught now,” Melisse advised. “For soon, the fates willing, you will enjoy your efforts.”

  She bent slightly, holding Mercy’s eyes.

  “He is who he is,” she repeated, “and also who you made him. Let him be that and rejoice.”

  Mercy remained silent as Melisse tipped her head respectfully and moved to the door.

  She stopped in it and turned.

  And there, she delivered her parting shot.

  “It’s just incense. There,” her hand flittered out in front of her, “and then ash.”

  With that, she walked out.

  Mercy continued to breathe heavily as she stared at the door, and did it feeling something peculiar happening behind her eyes.

  They felt prickly and hot.

  She thought no more on this when her woman, Helga, appeared in the door.

  Helga shot her a look, dipped a short curtsy, then dashed away.

  Gods damn it.

  It never ended.

  Reading Helga’s silent message loud and clear, for Helga was her eyes and ears in this castle and had sent such messages repeatedly over the years, Mercy herself rose and moved out of the room, rushing in the practiced way she did this.

  This being, walking very fast but without the appearance of doing so.

  She sought, and found, her husband.

  He was not in his formal study, a grand room with rich appointments and an extraordinary view of where the River Fae met the Great Wohd.

  He was in his informal study, a small, intimate room with rich appointments (though they did not rival that of his formal study) and a view of a minute corner of the gardens.

  He was in a chair by the fire, a book held open on its arm, but he looked as if he was about to nod off.

  “Husband,” she said sharply.

  Wilmer started, coughed, slapped his book closed and turned to his wife.

  “Must you sound like a harridan?” he asked.

  Must you behave like an imbecile? she thought. No
t a month ago, Prince Cassius stole his father’s rule right from under him whilst sitting at the same table as the man. Your son has arranged opened trade routes and advantageous alliances that you could take credit for and the people would be whispering your name with excitement, not your son’s as they prepare to watch him atop his horse as they ride through the city to his nuptials. And in the middle of the afternoon, you are at sleep in front of the fire.

  “Well?” Wilmer prompted, and Mercy realized her internal rant meant she missed something he said.

  Considering it was likely not important, she didn’t ask after it, but instead dispensed with her usual subtlety and inquired outright, “Has Carrington just gone?”

  He sighed.

  “My king,” she pressed.

  Knowing, in this mood, she would have what she wished, he gave it to her.

  “We’ve decided to increase the tax another coin.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “What kind of coin? Gold? Silver? Pewter? Brass? Copper?”

  “Gold.”

  Mercy’s torso drifted back.

  The shepherds, they could afford this (perhaps). The wheat farmers as well. A good few of the larger orchardists.

  The rest…

  “Why?” she inquired.

  He waved a hand at her and muttered, “Carrington has some plans.” His gaze then focused on her face and it did it more sharply than normal. “He’s also suggested I demand an accounting of the tithes the Go’Doan temples receive and then demand a taxation from them. And to this I agree heartily, wife. They have long argued these funds go for the good of our people, and thus should have an exception. We have long known much of them go to the polishing of the domes in that city. Not to mention, they rose up in Firenze against the king, proving at least some of them are what we expected…not trustworthy. They’ve enjoyed an exemption for far too long. That ends now.”

  For once, she could not disagree.

  So she didn’t.

  She focused on something else.

  “And these plans of Carrington’s?”

  “Wife.”

  “Husband.”

  “Mercy.”

  “Wilmer.”

  “We need a standing army.”

  As she suspected.

  “We have a standing army,” she reminded him.

  “No,” he said firmly. “True has a standing army.”