by Jenna Glass
Alys clasped her hands together, dreading her brother’s response to what she had to say. She had always assumed that the seer who tested the poison would take it a second time—if she was willing—once they’d confirmed the accuracy of the vision it granted. Even knowing that there was a risk, she’d never given serious consideration to the possibility that the seer might die.
“With Grunamai’s death,” she said, “we are left with only three seers in the Academy. Two of those are young mothers, and the last is only sixteen years old and almost completely untried. I’m afraid I can’t ask any of them to take a potion that might kill them.”
Tynthanal frowned. “I realize it is a terrible risk,” he said, “but Grunamai wouldn’t have been taking the risk in the first place if I had any seers available in the Abbey of Aaltah. This is too important for us to be overcautious. You said yourself that Grunamai had a heart defect, and—”
“No,” Alys said simply, cutting off his argument. “I fully understand the importance of finding out what happened at the Well, but my duty as sovereign princess is to put my own principality’s needs above others’. I can’t—I won’t—ask another seer to risk her life to help Aaltah.”
Tynthanal gaped at her. “You can’t mean that! Aaltah was once your home. We are close to defaulting on several trade agreements, and no one is eager to embark on new ones when they can’t be certain we will deliver. I don’t need to tell you how ugly it will get if our economy collapses. You’ve read the same history books as I.”
Alys grimaced, for he was right—she had. Despite such grim stories having been considered inappropriate for her delicate feminine sensibilities. Her father had never once remonstrated when he’d caught her reading Tynthanal’s books growing up. Financial troubles on the scale that seemed inevitable if the Well wasn’t repaired had led to riots and revolutions and general atrocities in the past.
Alys let out a sigh, for she was very aware that she was putting people she cared about in harm’s way by refusing. Almost the entire staff from her old manor house had remained in Aaltah—only her lady’s maid, Honor, having come with her—as had her in-laws.
“I know, Tynthanal,” she said. “But I’m not in a position to help you at the moment.”
“There is more,” Tynthanal said darkly, then told her the horrifying report that had come to him from the Abbey of Aaltah about the sudden dearth of pregnancies. “It is a closely guarded secret so far, but that cannot last, and when the citizens of Aaltah begin to figure it out…”
Alys’s chest ached with sympathy—and not a little dread. It would be frighteningly easy for public sentiment to turn against Tynthanal if he wound up not being able to fix the Well, and she wondered if he might not have been better off if she’d refused to allow him to take the regency.
“That doesn’t change anything,” Kailee said, and Alys was absurdly grateful to her sister-in-law for not forcing her to say it herself. “Women’s Well can’t absorb another loss, and the women of the Academy have too much to lose. Even if she asked one of them to take the potion, they might well refuse after what happened to Grunamai. But perhaps you can ask Queen Ellinsoltah if one of the seers in her abbey would be willing to take the risk.”
She turned her head toward Alys. “And perhaps you’d be willing to offer that seer a place at the Women’s Well Academy in exchange for her service? Surely there is a seer in the Abbey of Rhozinolm who’d be willing to take the risk if it meant she could leave the Abbey for good.”
Alys smiled at Kailee, though of course the younger woman could not see. “That sounds like an elegant solution, and I would be happy to offer that seer a place. I’d even be happy to compensate the Crown for the loss, if that would make it easier for Ellinsoltah to overcome any resistance she might face at the unusual request.” She had little doubt that the trade minister and some other members of Ellin’s council would become suddenly and perversely possessive of this so-called Unwanted Woman if she should be deemed of use to a foreign power.
“There,” Kailee said with a nod of satisfaction, patting Tynthanal’s hand, “that settles it. See how much easier it is to solve problems when you stop being reflexively prickly?”
Tynthanal scowled at her, although Alys thought she detected a hint of humor and respect lurking in his eyes. “I was not being prickly. I was doing my duty as prince regent.”
“And Alys was doing her duty as sovereign princess. I suppose it’s lucky for all that I am neither one.”
Even with the shadow of guilt still haunting her, Alys couldn’t help but laugh.
* * *
—
Corlin paced the confines of the cell he’d been peremptorily shoved into. There was little room for it, and he was making himself dizzy with the constant quick turns, but better that than sitting down on the bench with nothing to do but think. Pacing, he could at least try to escape himself, try to escape all the thoughts and feelings that demanded his immediate attention.
A solid punch had left him with an aching loose tooth and the taste of blood in his mouth, but the pain was an almost welcome distraction. He had promised everyone—including himself—that he would spend his time here in the Citadel of Aaltah as a model cadet, and for almost three months, he’d managed—with an effort of will—to keep that promise.
Now, here he was again, locked up in a military stockade awaiting discipline because of a humiliating inability to control his temper.
To be fair, he had been sorely provoked, and anyone seeing the start of the altercation would know that Cadet Justal had been the instigator. But of course, no one had seen the start of it, and by the time they’d been pulled apart, Justal’s bloody nose had somehow made him into the victim. Never mind that he was a full head taller than Corlin and a known bully.
None of that would matter, Corlin was certain. Justal’s reputation as a bully was nothing next to Corlin’s, thanks to his history. Lord Aldnor had warned him when he’d first entered the Citadel that there would be no benefit of the doubt extended to him, and he knew that he was in for a beating more severe than any he had yet survived.
He should have been afraid, he knew. Any sensible person would be. And yet for all the emotions that roiled through him, fear was nowhere to be found. He would face his punishment like a man, accepting it as his due for once again failing everyone who cared about him. He only hoped no one would send word to his mother about it. He was well aware of how much pain he’d already caused her by his disciplinary issues in Women’s Well, and he had no desire to cause her more.
Corlin growled in frustration as his thoughts—and the guilt—caught up with him despite the constant movement. He just barely stopped himself from punching the wall, knowing full well it would make him look even more like someone who was irretrievably out of control.
Panic shot through him finally as he wondered if Lord Aldnor’s promise of no leniency meant he was on the verge of being expelled from the Citadel. Again.
Footsteps sounded in the hallway, and a sergeant Corlin didn’t know entered the otherwise unoccupied cell block. Corlin took in a deep breath, tamping down the emotions as best he could as he stood at strict military attention and tried to look dignified. Hard to do when his uniform was caked with dirt and dried blood.
The sergeant looked at him contemptuously as he unlocked the cell door and stepped aside.
“Out!” the sergeant barked. “Lord Aldnor wants a word with you.”
Corlin forced a grin he did not feel as he exited the cell. “Oh, is that what they call it here?”
It was flippant and insubordinate and wildly inappropriate, and the sergeant’s scowl was not at all surprising. What was surprising was the fist that suddenly drove into Corlin’s solar plexus, stealing every sip of air from his lungs and causing his legs to give out.
“Oops,” the sergeant said. “My hand slipped. Now catch your breath and get b
ack on your feet. Keep your mouth closed, or my hand might slip again, and you wouldn’t like that.”
Corlin gritted his teeth. He was pretty certain casual violence of the sort the sergeant had just offered was against regulations, but he was hardly in a position to complain about it.
Clutching his midsection, Corlin did as he was told. The sergeant grabbed his arm in a grip far more brutal than necessary when Corlin was complying, dragging him through the cell block and out into the hallway beyond.
Corlin’s breath was still labored, and the sergeant was walking so fast that it was all he could do to keep his feet under him. He hoped the beating he was about to receive would not be a public one, but conceded to himself that it likely would be, just to add to the general humiliation of the whole ordeal.
This being his first experience with discipline at the Citadel of Aaltah, Corlin was not familiar with the stockade, so when the sergeant brought him to a stop in front of a closed door, Corlin did not know what was behind it. The sergeant let go of his arm, sneering at him.
“Straighten yourself up as best you can, Cadet. You look like you’ve been rolling around in the mud with the pigs.”
Corlin bit his tongue to keep an unwise retort from escaping his mouth, then brushed ineffectively at the dirt on his uniform. Setting his shoulders and raising his chin, he presented as dignified a façade as he was able. The sergeant opened the door and gestured him inside.
Since the death of King Aaltyn, Corlin had faced an embarrassing number of beatings, first from the brutal tutor his uncle Delnamal had assigned to him, then from his superiors at the Citadel of Women’s Well. It would be a lie to say he’d never been afraid, but he could at least claim that he’d never been so afraid he couldn’t hide the fear beneath a heavy veneer of stoicism. But he’d allowed himself to forget that being locked up in the stockade was not the usual procedure for cadets, nor had he contemplated what it would mean to be in a place usually reserved for adult military prisoners.
The room the sergeant gestured him into made no attempt to disguise its purpose. Military justice was often administered in public, both as a means to humiliate the offender and as a cautionary tale to others, but “often” was not the same as “always,” and this room had clearly been designed specifically for those punishments that were not being carried out in public.
The far wall featured an array of manacles that would allow several prisoners to be shackled at once, and though the room appeared scrupulously clean, Corlin could swear he scented blood and sweat on the air. A fine tremor passed through his whole body, his heart suddenly speeding with something very like terror. He had promised his mother that when he returned to Women’s Well, he would take the flogging he rightfully deserved for what he had done to Smithson—a promise it was clear she intended to make him break—but she would have no say in this.
He swallowed hard and reminded himself that he’d more than earned it.
Behind him, the sergeant chuckled darkly, and Corlin stiffened his spine. Afraid he might be, but he had no intention of providing the sergeant with any more amusement than absolutely necessary.
The door across from him opened, and Lord Aldnor entered the room. Corlin stood at strictest attention, staring straight ahead while the lord commander looked him up and down and shook his head. Corlin was fairly certain that if the man was looking for fear, he wasn’t finding it.
“I believe I made it clear that there would be no leniency for you, Cadet Corlin,” Lord Aldnor said. His voice was deep and gravelly, and he sounded stern even talking about the weather. It was all Corlin could do not to shrink at the tone of his voice right now.
“You did, sir,” Corlin said. He lowered his gaze to the floor in shame and submission. “I have no excuse. I’m sorry.”
As he was looking at the floor instead of at Lord Aldnor’s face, Corlin wasn’t sure what to make of the silence that followed his declaration. Perhaps Lord Aldnor knew full well that Corlin could have offered an excuse for his behavior. It certainly wasn’t unknown to the lord commander that Cadet Justal was a bully.
Corlin raised his head once more and met his commander’s eyes. He could not read what he saw there, but he didn’t think it looked like anger or even disappointment. There was something, though. Something grim and hard. Corlin tried to take heart from the fact that the lord commander was not carrying a whip, though of course a man of his stature was hardly likely to wield the thing himself.
“You are prepared to accept your punishment without complaint?” Lord Aldnor inquired.
Corlin refrained from pointing out that he was hardly in a position to do anything else. Complaining would certainly not save him. “I am, sir.”
Aldnor nodded. “Yes. And that is a part of the problem, isn’t it?”
“Sir?” Corlin blinked in surprise.
“The prince regent gave me a full accounting of your record in Women’s Well and of the disciplinary actions that were taken against you. If you were not the crown prince, you would have been dismissed long before you were.”
“I am aware of that, sir. And I—”
“What your record has shown me is that disciplinary actions have not made any lasting impression on you. I thought perhaps you had finally learned your lesson after almost killing a fellow cadet.”
Blood rushed to Corlin’s face, and he dropped his gaze to the floor once more as shame threatened to overwhelm him. He would never forget the sensation of his sword biting through Smithson’s flesh, never forget the cry of pain and surprise that had finally broken through Corlin’s blind fury. Even now, he swore he could smell the copper scent of blood and feel the rush of horror that filled him when Smithson fell. It was little more than good luck that had saved Smithson, for if Corlin hadn’t found the healer as quickly as he had…
“It does seem that the incident had some effect on you,” Lord Aldnor continued. “After all, you went nearly three months without losing your temper, which according to your uncle is a record for you. My conclusion from this fact is that being punished has no effect on you, but seeing someone else hurt because of your lack of self-control makes a much more lasting impression.”
Corlin felt as if the floor had just fallen out from under him, and he raised his gaze to Lord Aldnor’s face once more, hoping that he had somehow misunderstood. Surely the lord commander wasn’t implying…
The back door opened once again, and Corlin saw Captain Norlix enter the room, tugging a wide-eyed, terrified-looking Rafetyn behind him. Corlin started shaking his head vigorously back and forth.
“No,” he choked. “You can’t!”
But Captain Norlix was dragging Rafetyn toward one of the sets of manacles along the wall. The cadet was so small and frail that even after Norlix lowered the chains as far as they could go, Rafetyn had to stand nearly on tiptoe for his hands to reach that high.
“Please!” Corlin cried, holding out both hands and taking a step toward his friend. He’d forgotten all about the sergeant who’d been standing silently behind him throughout. The man grabbed both his arms and yanked him back, holding him in an iron grip.
Tears filmed Corlin’s vision, and he made no attempt to blink them back. Surely the lord commander wasn’t cruel enough to do this!
“Please, Lord Aldnor,” he begged as the tears spilled over. He could not bear this! “I will take whatever punishment you think I deserve, and I promise I’ll never get into trouble again. Just please, don’t do this.”
Lord Aldnor shook his head. “There is no point to a punishment that teaches you nothing. Learn to control your temper—and show you are willing to control it when you know how—and Cadet Rafetyn need stand in for you only this once. But mark my words: break the rules again, and we will all end up right back in this room.”
Corlin let out an incoherent cry of protest as Lord Aldnor turned to Captain Norlix and said, “Begin.”
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The beating was delivered with a leather strap, rather than with a whip, and for all his obvious fear, Rafetyn did not utter a sound. Corlin, on the other hand, humiliated himself by screaming and begging like a child, and he couldn’t be bothered to care. Life had given him little reason to believe in fairness, but never in his wildest dreams could he have imagined this level of injustice from the Lord Commander of Aaltah. Tynthanal had assured Corlin that Lord Aldnor was a good man, despite the differences that had arisen between the two of them when Tynthanal had forsaken Aaltah for Women’s Well. Clearly, Tynthanal had been wrong.
When it was over, and Corlin was allowed to return to the barracks while Rafetyn visited the healer, he seriously contemplated leaving the Citadel in protest. But that would leave Rafetyn entirely friendless and unprotected. Not that Rafetyn would want his friendship after what he’d suffered on Corlin’s behalf. But even if they were estranged, Corlin could still look out for him in a way that no one else would.
Nothing Corlin could ever do would make up for his losses of control, and nothing could ever assuage his guilt over those who’d been hurt by it. However, he knew deep down inside that he would never risk letting Rafetyn take a beating for him again. If Justal and the others ganged up on him, then he would take whatever abuse they dished out and not fight back. As long as he could trust himself not to get Rafetyn punished again, it was his duty to stay at the Citadel and lend whatever help Rafetyn would allow him to offer.
No matter how guilt-ridden and miserable he felt, Corlin would do his duty.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Tynthanal couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt nervous. Afraid, sure—as a lifelong soldier, he’d long ago learned how to cope with and function through fear. But what he felt now as he waited for Chanlix to answer the chirping of her talker was entirely different and outside of his experience, and he couldn’t put a finger on why that should be. His heart was racing, and when Chanlix answered the call and an image materialized before his eyes, he suddenly found that he could not breathe.