by C. L. Polk
“No,” Zelind said. “Bring him in.”
Miles set the book on the bedside table. “I’ll be just outside if you need me.”
“Me too,” I said, but Zelind shook kher head.
“Will you stay with me? And kick him out if he won’t listen?”
“I will,” I promised, and crossed the room, inspecting the supply station by habit. Tidy, and kept in order, and not my job anymore. I opened the infirmary door. Miles stepped out into the hall, looking stern.
“Zelind is recovering from a grave injury,” Miles said. “Don’t excite kher. Don’t upset kher. If you can’t promise that, don’t go in.”
Jarom squeezed his gloves. “I promise.”
I opened the infirmary door wider and beckoned Jarom inside. He looked nervous, his mouth pressed thin and stretched wide.
“Solace,” he whispered, when he caught sight of Zelind’s gaunt face. “What happened?”
“Khe stopped a bullet meant for me,” I said. “It would have caused less damage if khe’d been shot.”
“Stop talking about me and come here,” Zelind said. “Give me the name.”
Jarom felt for his breast pocket again. “I didn’t want to believe it. But I cross-referenced the journal with the accounts, and it has to be true—”
“Who?”
“My father, Kalman Bay.”
Zelind closed kher eyes and let out a slow breath. “Not Mother.”
“No. He didn’t do it to stop your marriage,” Jarom said. “He chafed at being passed over for your mother, not being in charge of the firm. He poured out his resentment and ire over Birdie’s domineering, uncompromising attitude in his journals. He wanted to hurt her just as much as he wanted me to run the firm. By having you arrested, he struck two blows at once.”
“Uncle Kalman,” Zelind said. “I had no idea he hated me.”
Jarom shook his head. “I think you were just in the way. It was a secret he kept to his grave. I’m surprised he didn’t have these books burned.”
Zelind struggled to sit up, and I helped kher by reflex, cranking up the head of kher bed. “You realize I’m not going back.”
“Yes,” Jarom said. “And I don’t blame you. If you want me to, I’ll step aside, and you can take charge—”
“No, I don’t want the firm. I want to start a turbine manufacturer.”
“You’re too late,” Jarom said. “Everyone and their uncle is making them.”
“I never wanted to do it for the profits. I want to give the witches a stable place to work. Veterans too. I want to form an enterprise cooperative. And you’re going to bankroll it. Aren’t you?”
“Silent partner,” Jarom agreed. “And the Princess Mary Hotel is safe. I won’t let Birdie drive Clan Cage out of their home.”
“Good,” I said, “because I’m declaring it a building of social and historical significance. Birdie can try tangling with the Prime Minister’s office if she wants to waste her time.”
“You don’t ever have to come back, Zelind,” Jarom said. “I promise you. Anything she tries to drag you back under her roof, I will stop her. My father stole the firm from you.”
Zelind shrugged. “Honestly, I never really wanted it. I planned on building clever devices and letting you figure out how to make money from them.”
Hope stole into Jarom’s eyes. “We can still do that, if you decide you want to. There’s no rush.”
Zelind licked kher lips. “Miles says I’ll be up and walking soon. We can think about it in three days.”
Jarom sniffed and bowed his head. “Thank you.”
“I expect you’ll have found a factory site by then,” Zelind said. “We need to move fast. We have a lot of competitors.”
“We do,” Jarom agreed, and his shoulders sank in relief. “I’ll tell you what I’ve accomplished in three days.”
“Good. I’m tired now, and I hurt. I need to sleep.”
“We’ll let you rest,” Jarom said, leaving us alone together.
I kissed Zelind’s forehead and khe took my hand. “Will you come back when you’re done prime ministering? I sleep better when you’re here.”
“Try to keep me away.”
Zelind smiled and closed kher eyes, but I waited until kher breathing evened out before I left.
* * *
The morning of Christopher Leland Hensley’s death dawned on a clear blue sky. Clerks and bureaucrats obliged to attend the execution wore snow goggles to protect against the glare, a strange modern affectation when worn with black robes and stiffened lace. Joy and I wove past them to stand before the gallows, stepping to the side of the witnesses who had a right to the best view.
Grace wore pale gray tweed, a subtle plaid that coordinated with the glowing, wine-red ascot at her throat. Her shoulders were hand-eased and bare of the butterfly brooches that grieving Aelanders wore. She held hands with Avia Jessup, who was dressed in the sharp-shouldered suit and pinch-fronted hat of a reporter and had a camera around her neck stowed inside its protective case.
Miles stood on Grace’s right, leaning against tall, handsome Tristan. I slipped in beside the Amaranthine, and he shuffled to give me some more room.
“Pretty day, isn’t it?” he asked, and the drummers began to play, sparing us further small talk under the gallows.
They’d dressed Christopher well. Snow scudded over the toes of his shiny black shoes. The suit looked new, and a watch chain draped over the front button of his weskit. He wore no hat, and his white hair gleamed in the sunlight. He went quietly to the top of the stairs, stood on the trapdoor with icy dignity, and gazed down at his children as the rope went around his neck. Miles and Grace stood taller, lifting their chins to gaze back. I didn’t want to watch this, but I had to be ready.
More people arrived, heralded by the crunch and squeak of the snow under their steps. Birds circled the gallows, landing on nearby trees, and Christopher watched them gather and settle with a little smile. I glanced behind me.
Aife and Ysonde stood in attendance, with a retinue of Amaranthines bearing arms. They stood behind us, Aife arm in arm with her secretary. She glanced at me, giving me a nod.
I nodded back and the drums stopped.
The executioner pulled the lever. The floor yawned open.
Christopher fell.
I had seen a man die of blood loss on the table, of the rotten necrotic insides a surgeon exposed to the light, of the final strain on an overworked heart—those were deaths I knew, defeats in the battle to heal a man with a knife. This death was not like that, but I watched it regardless, flinching as the fall cut itself short of the ground.
Christopher’s ghost landed on the snow, crouching to take the impact out of pure habit. He set his sights on Grace and Miles and stalked toward them.
Miles took Grace’s elbow. Grace gasped. Christopher took another step, his face younger, his hair dark and combed back with brilliantine, and he looked so much like Miles, only Miles never looked that menacing, that cruel. He meant to haunt them, to lurk in the corner of their vision and never let them forget. He stared at Grace, his mouth pursed up tight, his chin jutted out, and I knew he would never leave her alone, not for a moment.
That wasn’t going to happen.
I coiled my power around his form and made him shrink. Smaller, smaller, though Christopher shouted and tried to fight the constriction. He would not haunt Grace, nor Miles. Not while I could do something about it.
His struggle meant nothing to me. I gathered up his soul-stuff and turned it into a tiny ball of light, drawing it to my hands. Mine now—I could make him my soulstar, set him to float beside Jacob. I could bind his power to anyone I pleased. Instead, I turned around and held up Christopher’s soul to Aife and bowed my head.
“Your Highness. Death is not enough justice for what this man has done to our people. I don’t want him retiring to the peace of the Solace. Will you allow me to deny it to him?”
Aife looked at the soul—a shimmering ball that fl
ared with bright white light—floating in my cupped hands. “What do you propose?”
“I want to trap it in a tree,” I said. “An oak will thrive for a thousand years. That might be penance enough.”
Aife considered my request. “When that tree falls, when he crosses over, then it will be my turn to lay justice on him.”
My cheeks warmed. “I should have realized you would have justice for him.”
“My plans can wait that long,” Aife said. “Do as you will.”
I chose a red oak, a species that grew tall and thrived for centuries. Bare of all its brilliant red foliage, its empty branches pointed to the shining blue sky. I approached the trunk and pushed Christopher’s soul against the rough bark, forcing it to meld with the living wood.
The light of Christopher’s soulstar spread through the cracks in the bark, sinking down into the heartwood. This was his domain now—a living thing that couldn’t see, couldn’t move, couldn’t cast magic. He would dwell here as long as the tree lived—and I meant to ensure that it would persist long after I was dead.
I turned back to the gallows. Christopher’s body had already been taken away. I stood in front of Miles and Grace and took their hands.
“It’s over,” I said. “All he can do now is serve his punishment.”
“Thank you,” Grace said. “It’s fitting.”
“He can’t hurt anyone now,” Miles said. “Let’s go inside. I asked the kitchen to put something together for us.”
“I’m not mourning him.” Grace squeezed her eyes shut, scowling at her tears. “After what he did to you? After what he did to all the witches?”
“We’re having a drink.” Miles took Grace’s hand, making us a triangle. “And we’re going to be together.”
“You’re allowed to be angry at how he used you. We don’t have to mourn him. He shaped our lives, and now he’s gone, but we’re still here, and we should do whatever we need to do.”
“I’ll drink,” Grace said. “To a better Aeland. To our freedom. But not to him.”
“Good enough for me,” Miles said.
We crossed the trampled snow to Kingsgrave Prison, and trepidation shivered at the back of my neck. I stopped, turning back to look at the oak.
Every bare-fingered branch was filled with birds.
TWENTY-SIX
The Light of the Solace
I drank a thimble of peach cordial and spent an hour in the stiff, sardonic conversation that hung like a veil over Grace’s feelings—feelings that Miles prodded at with questions and observations. I knew what he was trying to do, and Grace wasn’t going to peel out of the tough hide that shielded the emotions Miles wanted to probe while I was there. I slipped out of the kitchen, traveled the quiet halls of the palace, and went to sleep beside Zelind, who woke me up with kher fingers stroking my cheek.
“Can we get married again?” khe asked. “I don’t think I’m finished living the rest of my life with you.”
“We can get married again,” I said, and khe smiled.
“It’s got to be a big wedding this time.”
“With music and dancing.”
“And three kinds of cake, so I don’t have to choose a favorite.”
“Where do you want to have it?”
“The Princess Mary. In the ballroom.”
“We’ll ask Clan Cage.”
“They’ll say yes,” Zelind murmured. “They owe me a favor.”
I tucked my head under Zelind’s chin and drifted back to sleep.
When I woke up again, Aunt Glory had sent a bag of my best clothes. I unpacked in a suite in the palace to wash and change. I took a pasty with me to the office, chewing on eggs, cheese, and goose sausage as I wandered down the halls to my office.
I blinked in surprise to behold Jamille Wolf, alone and waiting for me. She was dressed in her customary smoke-tattered gray, sat with a cup of malty black tea. Her expression was smooth and impassive, the face of someone with plenty to hide.
She rose when I came in and bobbed her head. “Right Honorable.”
“Miss Jamille,” I said, and her eyes widened when I put out my hand for her to shake. “James, would you play something fitting for the day?”
James picked a melody that thrummed with melancholy, and that was good enough. I led Jamille into the office, now mine after centuries in the hands of one Royal Knight or another. I let her examine the warm, book-filled room and watched her smile when she saw a full set of Saria Green adventure stories, their colorful spines tucked in beside the law books. While she went from looking around to fidgeting, I sat in my padded horseshoe back chair and left her standing.
“You’ve come without an appointment.”
“Surprised I wasn’t arrested,” Jamille said.
“May I know why you’re here?”
Jamille laced her fingers together. “To ask you to put all the blame on me for the fires, Right Honorable. The others only obeyed me, and they should go free.”
“So you’re here to be punished,” I said. “Sent to Kingsgrave to rot for your crimes.”
“It’s a sacrifice.” Jamille shrugged, and one of her beaded hairlocks fell off her shoulder. “The old man swung for his crimes yesterday. I don’t think I merit the gallows, but you and I both know what I did.”
“And you came willingly to protect your people.”
“I came to ask you to take care of them. I can’t outrun you, so I have a bargain to offer—I’ll go quietly, if you’ll protect Five Corners.”
My forehead ridged with surprise. “I don’t think that’s going to happen.”
Jamille’s expression went stormy. “I thought you’d play me fair.”
“Oh no,” I said. “I mean that I planned to do something even worse than leaving you to run your operation from behind bars.”
“You’re going to send me to the gallows?”
“No,” I said. “I’m going to legalize state-controlled gambling.”
Jamille sucked in a breath. “Five Corners needs that money. People need the little hope to win—and if you’re in trouble, the chance at a loan to make things right.”
“Charged at prime and a half.”
Jamille shrugged. “It’s not like gambling debt. We have to make something off it.”
“Not anymore,” I said. “Your numbers scheme is now under control of the government.”
“But—”
I put my finger up for silence. “The proceeds will be used to fund special projects in vulnerable communities, group therapy for veterans and imprisoned witches, retraining projects, and low-income housing initiatives—and you are going to make sure no one skims off the top.”
“Me?” If Jamille looked shocked before, she was pie-eyed now. “You’re making me go straight?”
“You’re going to be so level we could build a house with you. I mean to attack bureaucratic corruption, and I want your numbers crew to burrow into the accounting of every department in government and take everyone’s hands out of the till.”
“So you want my whole operation to go straight,” Jamille mused. “Do you want to know who’s crooked in the police departments?”
“Absolutely,” I said.
“I just want to know one thing,” Jamille said. “Why let me go?”
“Because Basil Brown is going down for the fires. He was the one who wanted to use fire, and I know it was for Severin’s scheme to pin us with Grace’s death. You trusted him. You chose to believe in him, and he betrayed you.”
Jamille tilted her head and regarded me through narrowed eyes. “And if I muck up your anticorruption plans, you can revoke this mercy at any time.”
“You have it exactly. I saw what you did with the Greystars. I know you know fraud like no one else. I know that you can do the job, and that you’ll never forget you owe me.”
Jamille looked at me, thinking. “Of course I’ll do it,” she said. “But you knew that already.”
“I knew it the moment you came in here to bargain for
your community. You’re now the gambling and lottery commissioner. I’ll have an operating budget for you in a few days. Refer some of your best number benders to me, and we’ll see how well we like working with each other.”
“You won’t regret it,” Jamille vowed.
“And you’re going to shut down the Greystars. You’re going to be running a major bureaucracy,” I said. “You’re not going to have time to get into trouble.”
“And if they spring up independent of me?” Jamille asked.
“Stamp them down or go to jail.”
Jamille whistled. “All right. Deal. I’ll tell the Stars we’re going legitimate. You’ll have some accountants tomorrow.”
She backed up a step before turning around, and I let myself smile as the door clicked shut behind her.
Ten minutes later, the door clicked open, and James stepped inside. “An Amaranthine brought this for you.”
He handed me a note. I flipped it open and read, “Please call on me in the glasshouse.” It was signed with an “A,” and marked with “yf,” denoting who had written the note for the Grand Duchess.
I folded the note and stood up. “I’m going out. I don’t know for how long. Make appointments for anyone who comes calling.”
* * *
The Amaranthines were packing. I watched a young man carrying a spinning wheel out of one of the suites join a group carting trunks and crates outside. I hurried to the end of the wing, where I found Aife and Ysonde, out of their dazzling court clothes and dressed in wide trousers that just covered their calves, with belted tunics layered over full-sleeved shirts. Aife dictated a letter to Ysonde, who wrote with a silver-filigree fountain pen.
She broke off when she saw me. “You came.”
“And you’re leaving.”
“You have started Aeland on an unusual path.” Aife smiled and put her mass of golden curls over her shoulder. “I trust that everything I required of Queen Constantina as a punishment will be carried out by you as a balm. You don’t need us to hover, to remind you that Amaranthine justice is specific and fitting.”