Mother of All

by Jenna Glass

  There were still two empty seats at the other tables as Corlin approached, but he found his feet taking him toward Rafetyn’s table instead. For the last several weeks, Corlin had dutifully joined the more accomplished cadets and tried to make friends, but today he decided he was sick of it.

  Rafetyn looked up at him with wide, startled eyes as Corlin stepped over the bench and took a seat directly across the table from him. In his peripheral vision, he could see the table of cadets to his right staring, then whispering to one another.

  “Umm,” Rafetyn said with a quick sideways glance at their comrades, “this might not be a good idea.”

  Corlin shrugged and tried to tear a hunk off the heel of bread on his tray. “Good ideas are overrated,” he said, then gave up on trying to tear the bread with his hands and set his teeth to it. The crust refused to give way.

  Rafetyn, who also had a heel of bread on his tray, picked it up and plucked some of the soft insides out. “Your teeth’ll break before that crust will,” he advised, and Corlin had to concede the point. “And if you stay at this table any longer, you’re going to live to regret it.”

  Corlin had no doubt the boy was right. He could feel the scorn of his fellow first-years like a palpable force. If he got up and left the table now, he could probably salvage the situation, pretend he’d sat with Rafetyn just to get the kid’s hopes up only to dash them. And yet he felt no pressing need to do so. If the other first-years were going to warm to him, they’d have done so by now. Not to mention that he had not warmed to any of them, either.

  Following Rafetyn’s lead and pulling out what little soft bread he could find, Corlin shrugged again. “I’m sick of playing their games.”

  “Believe it or not, their games can get worse,” Rafetyn muttered darkly, digging into the mushy, overcooked soup that had been scraped from the bottom of the serving bowl.

  After everything he’d been through since his uncle Delnamal had become King of Aaltah, Corlin couldn’t dredge up even a hint of dread at the prospect of cementing his position as a social pariah. He had not come to the Citadel of Aaltah to make friends, nor had he come because he thought his life would be easy here. After all, if he’d wanted an easier life, he could have stayed with his uncle Tynthanal at the royal palace and applied himself to other studies. While it was not unusual for a crown prince to spend some of his youth at the Citadel, tradition favored more academic pursuits.

  “I can handle it,” he said. At least he would be in a better position to fight back than Rafetyn was. While he was not especially large for his age, he worked harder and more diligently at his drills than anyone else in the class, making him both stronger and quicker than he appeared.

  Rafetyn gave him a doubtful look. “They’ll come at you in numbers when they do,” he said. “They’ve seen you spar and drill, so they won’t underestimate you.”

  “So be it.” If Rafetyn could take the abuse the others dished out to him, then surely Corlin could do the same.

  As they ate, Corlin wondered what Rafetyn was doing at the Citadel in the first place. While it was certainly a popular choice for second and third sons, Rafetyn could not be more unsuited for it.

  Rafetyn noticed his scrutiny and smiled crookedly. For everything he suffered, his spirits seemed surprisingly unscathed. “You’re wondering why I haven’t had the good sense to wash my hands of this place and run home.”

  “Well…” Corlin hedged, then cleared his throat. “If you don’t mind my saying, it doesn’t seem you’re especially called to the military life.”

  Rafetyn gave him a look of mock amazement that made Corlin’s cheeks heat with embarrassment. “You don’t say?”

  Corlin cleared his throat again, shifting uncomfortably.

  Rafetyn waved his hand dismissively. “It’s all right. I know I’ve got the body of a ten-year-old and the martial spirit of a gentlewoman. But my father wants a soldier, and what my father wants, my father gets.”

  Corlin’s breath caught with a sudden stab of pain, which he tried to hide. His own father had been dead more than two years now. He couldn’t count how many people had advised him that the grief would never completely go away, and yet the grief that occasionally snuck up on him never failed to inspire some self-loathing, as well. He was a grown man now, and there was no excuse for being moved nearly to tears at the very mention of the word “father.”

  “What about what you want?” Corlin asked, pushing his soup around his bowl with no appetite. He knew his late father would be disappointed to see him at the Citadel—he would have preferred a much safer and more mundane life for his son—but just as his mother had done, his father would have deferred to his wishes once he realized they were sincere.

  Rafetyn snorted. “He’s made it clear that his wishes are more important than anyone else’s. So, here I am.”

  “What would happen if you quit?”

  Another snort. “Not an option.” He shoved his food aside and met Corlin’s eyes with a piercing stare. “If you’ve already placed a bet for my exit date, you have lost your money. My body may be weak, but my mind is not. I will stay in the Citadel until I reach my majority, and I will prove every sneering bastard in this whole place wrong.”

  There was a hearty dose of determination in Rafetyn’s voice, but Corlin also glimpsed something akin to desperation. It made him think the boy was more afraid of going home than staying in the Citadel, no matter what their classmates might put him through.

  “I would not bet against you,” Corlin said with more confidence than he felt. Unless Rafetyn put on a late growth spurt, it was hard to imagine how he could withstand the rigorous training of the Citadel while also dodging the malice of his peers.

  “You probably already have,” Rafetyn said coolly, perhaps sensing his lack of conviction. “But I won’t hold it against you.”

  “I did not,” Corlin said with some dignity. Then, on impulse, he added, “If I were going to place a bet, it would be for you, not against you.”

  Rafetyn snorted. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

  Without another word, Corlin rose from the table, having already spotted the cadet whom he knew was in charge of the bets. All eyes were on him as he crossed the distance between them, emptying his coin purse into his hand as he walked.

  “Twenty crowns Cadet Rafetyn will go the distance,” he said loudly. The entire mess went silent.

  “Well, go on,” he said when the cadet just stared at him, slack-jawed and disbelieving. “Put it in your book.”

  It was a princely sum, and he suspected if he were betting against Rafetyn, it would be rejected as too rich. However, under the circumstances, it no doubt seemed like easy money.

  The cadet shrugged, raking in the coins. “Have it your way,” he said with a greedy gleam in his eye. “But don’t come crying to me when you lose.”

  Corlin rolled his eyes, then returned to Rafetyn’s table to find his fellow cadet gaping at him. He wasn’t entirely sure what had moved him to place the bet—logic still said Rafetyn could not possibly last—but he did not regret it. And his gut said the bet wasn’t as crazy as it appeared.

  Rafetyn grinned at him, then shook his head ruefully. “You have just made the target on your back ten times larger by siding with me.”

  “Let them come,” Corlin responded, feeling a fierce sort of eagerness building in his gut. He had been on his best behavior since he’d arrived at the Citadel of Aaltah. He knew his uncle Tynthanal had given the lord commander a thorough recounting of his behavior problems in Women’s Well, which had led to a chilling lecture and warning from the man himself before Corlin had been allowed to set foot on the grounds.

  “You are here already on probation,” Lord Aldnor had told him, glaring at him from under bushy gray brows. The man had a thoroughly intimidating glare, and Corlin’s pulse had raced at being on its receiving end. “Ther
e will be no warnings and no leniency. Step out of line even a little, and you will pay the price.”

  Corlin had believed the man implicitly, and since his entire purpose for entering the Citadel of Aaltah was to prove that he could learn to control his temper, he had vowed to turn himself into a model student. It was getting steadily harder to keep that vow as time passed and his only outlets for the rage that often threatened to consume him were drilling and sparring, which both required a great deal of control.

  He would never have admitted it, but he might almost say he looked forward to the inevitable consequences of befriending someone who was even more of an outsider than he himself was. If the others ganged up on him, then he would be under no obligation to control his temper or measure his response. The beating he’d take would quite possibly be worth it if he could only vent his feelings.

  * * *

  —

  “So,” Zarsha asked when the sitting room door closed behind him, “what is this surprise you’ve been teasing me with all night?” He waggled his brows at her, and Ellin laughed.

  “It’s not that kind of surprise,” she said, shaking her finger in a mock scold.

  He stuck his lip out in an exaggerated pout. “How cruel of you to get my hopes up. I’d thought you’d come upon something scandalous and original in the library and wanted to test it out with me.”

  She snorted softly. “We’ve barely been married a week. Surely we aren’t in need of anything exotic to spice up our relationship yet. Or are you trying to tell me you’re bored already?” She made sure to keep her voice light and teasing so that he didn’t worry for a moment that she meant it. It was impossible to miss Zarsha’s enthusiasm in the marriage bed—or her own, for that matter. She didn’t believe their marriage and their nightly festivities had completely healed the wound Waldmir had inflicted on their relationship, but it had gone a long way toward smoothing it over.

  Zarsha stepped toward her, his eyes smoldering as he took her hands and lowered his voice to a heated murmur. “If I live to be a hundred, I’ll never grow bored with you,” he said, and kissed her so thoroughly she almost forgot what she’d been planning to show him.

  Slowly, reluctantly—her pulse was speeding and her body suddenly aching with desire—Ellin pulled away from the kiss.

  “I’d better give you your gift now or I’ll never get around to it,” she said as his eyes continued to burn into her.

  “I’m all for gifts,” he said suggestively, reaching for her.

  “Be serious,” she scolded, slapping his hand gently. “This will only take a moment.”

  He gave a dramatic sigh, but subsided. Ellin nodded her approval and moved to the locked cupboard in the corner. She began second-guessing herself as she unlocked the cupboard, wondering if bringing up the subject of what Zarsha had had to give up to marry her would sour the mood. However, it was too late to change her mind now.

  “I had hoped to have this gift ready for you on our wedding day,” she said, reaching into the cupboard and pulling out the small, heavy coffer she’d stored there, “but I opted for discretion over speed. I hope you will agree that I made the right choice.”

  Turning to Zarsha, she held out the coffer with both hands. He frowned at her thoughtfully and cocked his head, clearly curious.

  “I do seem to remember having received a gift on our wedding day,” he said. “Or has memory failed me?” He glanced down at the understated sapphire ring he wore on his thumb. Most people in Rhozinolm would consider it an almost insultingly plain gift for a prince consort, but knowing Zarsha’s Nandelite disdain for ornamentation, she’d chosen a small stone in a simple setting. Her reward was seeing him actually wear her gift, which she suspected he would not have done had it been more elaborate.

  Ellin let out a small sigh. “I suppose ‘gift’ isn’t truly the most appropriate term. It’s more of an apology. Open it.”

  She did not like the sudden hint of wariness she saw in Zarsha’s eyes. He lifted the lid gingerly, as if afraid something might leap out at him. And when he saw the collection of coins within, he winced.

  “You will have a respectable income as my prince consort,” she said, her voice trembling at the utter lack of joy in his eyes, “but I know you will want to try to help your retainers despite Waldmir’s prohibition, and I did not want you to have to wait…” Her voice trailed off, for it was obvious she’d miscalculated.

  Zarsha took the coffer from her hands and set it aside.

  “I’ve offended you,” she whispered.

  “No!” he responded with gratifying speed. “It’s not that at all.” He forced a strained grin. “I’ve no problem with being a kept man, at least not under the circumstances.”

  “Then what is it?” she asked. “I promise you I’ve been utterly discreet about collecting the money, and it is all my own. There will be no uncomfortable questions, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  He rubbed his eyes, then looked away. “It’s not that at all. It’s just…”

  “What?” she demanded, feeling a pulse of frustration.

  He sighed. “It’s just that I don’t need the money. I’ve already sent money to all the retainers I could locate and have arranged to send more over time.”

  She blinked in confusion. “But how? Your uncle confiscated your entire estate!”

  Zarsha nodded. “All my legal, aboveboard possessions, yes. But, er…I have some money and goods socked away in every kingdom and principality in which I’ve spent any significant amount of time. I’m not upset with you for trying to give me money—it was a kindhearted and generous gesture. I’m merely uncomfortable admitting that Waldmir’s attempt to ruin me financially was…not as successful as he might have hoped.”

  Ellin moved over to a sofa and sat down heavily, feeling like a naïve little fool. Given everything she knew about Zarsha and his well-practiced habit of sniffing out secrets, she should have guessed he had money Waldmir didn’t know about. He was a good and kind man, but he was not a perfect one. He’d originally come to Rhozinolm as something of a spy, after all, and he’d been blackmailing his uncle for years. If he would blackmail Waldmir to protect himself and those he cared about, it wasn’t much of a stretch to imagine he might blackmail others for money.

  “Tell me where the money comes from,” she said. “I want to understand exactly what kind of man I married.”

  He flinched ever so slightly at the bite in her voice, then rallied. “I have never lied to you,” he said. “I admitted I was a spy.” He cleared his throat. “I just…didn’t mention that Waldmir wasn’t my only employer.”

  “Nor the only person you were blackmailing.”

  Zarsha’s eyes flashed, and it looked like he would almost snap at her but held himself back. He rubbed his hands together. “I have never used people’s secrets to extort money from them. The money I have stored away is payment for information only.”

  But Ellin was getting used to Zarsha’s habit of telling the truth without telling all of the truth. “You haven’t extorted money out of people,” she mused, “but can you tell me you haven’t extorted information for which you were paid money?”

  He squirmed and looked away again. “No. I can’t tell you that.” He took a deep breath and then met her eyes again. “You’ve already seen my information network at work, and you have benefited from it. I can’t pretend everything I’ve done has been strictly ethical, but it has always been for the greater good. I wouldn’t betray the secrets of someone who didn’t deserve it.”

  Ellin folded her arms and narrowed her eyes at him. “You admitted you spied on me in the beginning. It’s how you found out about my relationship with Graesan!”

  He nodded. “And I told you I never shared that information with anyone. I know a great many secrets that will go with me to the grave, no matter who wants to know them or how much they are willi
ng to pay.”

  She threw up her hands. “Then if you’re so blameless, why haven’t you told me about this before?”

  Zarsha plopped heavily into an armchair across from her, shaking his head. “I have no good excuse,” he admitted, “save perhaps long habit. As someone who has trafficked in other people’s secrets, I suppose I’m reflexively protective of my own.”

  “And are there any other big secrets you’re keeping that will cause strife between us if I ever learn of them?”

  She hoped for a quick denial—she was fairly certain she would believe it—but instead Zarsha was silent for a long time, and her heart sank.

  “Graesan tried to come see you,” he finally admitted, looking at his clasped hands instead of at her.

  “What?” she cried. So she had seen him up there in the rafters at the wedding!

  “I intercepted him,” Zarsha continued, still talking to his hands. “I told him I would secure him a place in the royal guard of the Midlands. No one there will quibble over him using the name Rah-Brondar or have any reason to suspect he’d ever been called anything else.”

  It was a sad reality that, in Rhozinolm, Graesan’s prospects had been limited due not only to his illegitimacy, but because his mother had been his father’s housemaid. It was a stain he had never succeeded in washing off, despite his father having granted him his name.

  “In the Midlands,” Zarsha continued, “with no one knowing the circumstances of his birth, he can start over as a proper gentleman, with the hope of being promoted according to his merits.” He finally looked up. “My only condition was that he not see you before he left.”

  Ellin blinked at the sudden sting of tears in her eyes. She could honestly say her love for Graesan was a thing of the past, but she could see only one reason why Zarsha would inflict such a condition. “You didn’t trust me not to fall into his arms if we saw each other again?” she asked acidly.