by Jenna Glass
“A moment ago, you were trying to convince me that it is prophetic,” she griped. “Now you’re trying to convince me it isn’t?”
Jaizal huffed. “I’m just saying it doesn’t seem like a normal vision, if there is such a thing. Normal visions show you a future you can change based on your will, and they basically allow you to see real, literal events that haven’t happened yet and may never happen.”
Leethan had to acknowledge that was true. “It starts out seeming like a real vision, at least to some extent. There’s nothing particularly strange about standing on a cliff and seeing warships on the horizon.”
Jaizal cocked her head to the side. “Isn’t there? You said you were alone on that cliffside and saw no one waiting on the beach below, unless the dreams you’ve had lately are different.”
“No,” she admitted. “They’re not different. And it’s true that with that fleet bearing down, there should have been people—an army—waiting for them.”
Jaizal nodded. “And fortifications, barricades, trenches…”
“Yes.”
“And the rest of the dream…?”
She sighed. “I’ve never had a vision wherein I see faceless people. What I saw was the suggestion of a battle, rather than a real battle, no matter how convincing the sounds. And the confrontation between the men and the women…There was nothing remotely realistic about that.”
“So,” Jaizal concluded with satisfaction, “whatever the dream might signify, it is not a literal vision of the future. Which means you cannot assume that you are expected to commit suicide or even kill Prince Waldmir.”
Leethan nodded an agreement, but her gut still roiled with worry. Perhaps what she’d seen was both prophetic and not literal. But no matter what, it hinted at a very dark future. A future she feared was much closer on the horizon than she wished to know.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Kailee set aside the last page of the epic poem Tynthanal had had copied out for her in elemental ink, feeling a rush of giddy excitement. Across from her, Oona applauded.
“Very well done!” Oona said, her voice showing her delight. “I hardly think you need my help anymore.”
Smiling, Kailee ran her hand over the stack of papers that sat on the coffee table, scarcely believing she had made it through the entire thing without once having to ask Oona’s help.
Tynthanal had begun the task of teaching her to read, but thanks to the constraints of his duties, he was never able to spend as much time on the task as Kailee would have liked. Once she’d struck up a friendship with Oona, she’d inadvertently found herself a new tutor. One who had nearly as much time on her hands as Kailee, thanks to her alienation from court.
“I could not have done it without you,” Kailee assured her unlikely friend.
Oona gave a self-deprecating laugh. “Oh, I think you could have. You are far too clever—and too stubborn—to fail at anything you put your mind to.”
Kailee felt the heat in her cheeks and knew she was blushing. She was not overly used to accepting compliments. “It would have taken a lot longer. And my penmanship could certainly use more work.”
“That’s simply a matter of practice,” Oona replied. “But I’m happy to give you whatever help and encouragement you still want. We outcasts must stick together.”
It was said with good humor and with not even a modicum of malice, but Kailee winced anyway.
Oona sighed. “We might as well embrace it, no?”
Kailee shook off her chagrin as best she could and forced a bright smile. “Yes, of course. Although I do wish I didn’t feel so…useless.”
“You’re not useless!” Oona remonstrated quickly and with admirable conviction.
“I can perform none of the social functions ordinarily required of the wife of a prince regent. I am invited to the barest minimum of social functions, and then ignored when I attend. No one but you accepts my own invitations. I have no influence that can in any way help my husband, nor do I see petitioners, because the council—despite Tynthanal’s attempts to persuade them otherwise—have deemed that it would be a waste of time because no one would show up.”
“They aren’t entirely wrong,” Oona said. “There is very little use for a dowager queen at court, either, except to see petitioners. But I can tell you from personal experience that one’s social standing greatly affects how many petitioners wish to visit. I am hardly kept occupied.”
“At least you get to have the audiences in the first place,” Kailee said. “Besides, you have two children to care for. I’m sure you do not spend your time in forced idleness as I do.”
“Well, perhaps you will have children of your own soon. I must admit, they have a magical way of making me feel both vitally necessary and completely inadequate at the same time.”
Kailee couldn’t help a little grimace, for she would be having no children, at least in the foreseeable future.
“You do want to have children, don’t you?” Oona asked, for thanks to the Blessing, it was no longer possible for a woman to conceive a child if she didn’t wish to.
“I do,” Kailee confirmed, although she had known since she was old enough to understand such things that she was not fated to be a mother. She had spent most of her life expecting never to marry and to eventually end up shut behind the walls of the Abbey of Rhozinolm. Tynthanal had never made any secret about his lack of desire for her, and even if he wanted her, she could not bed him without feeling she was betraying Chanlix.
Oona was silent for a long moment. “Are you and your husband…not intimate?”
Heat flooded Kailee’s face, for she had never meant to reveal so much, not even to a friend. She urged herself to lie—she had to admit, rather guiltily, that she was good at it and well-practiced—but the words refused to leave her mouth. Which was likely just as well, for her blush had revealed the truth.
Oona laid a hand softly on Kailee’s shoulder, but though her touch was gentle, her voice had sharp edges to it. “I have tried to give Tynthanal the benefit of the doubt despite how he treated Delnamal, but for him to scorn you because—”
“It’s not that,” Kailee said hastily. “He has never been anything but kind to me, and he is as thoughtful and considerate a husband as I could ever hope to find.” She could almost see how Oona frowned at her.
“But then why…? Unless I am very much mistaken, you love him.”
Kailee’s breath hissed in through her teeth, and pain stabbed through her chest as those words burrowed into her flesh. “Is it that obvious?” she asked with an unbecoming quaver in her voice. She prayed to the Mother that Oona was especially observant and that Tynthanal himself did not know how her stubborn feelings insisted on running away with her.
“It is no shame to love your husband,” Oona said soothingly. “And for those of us who do not get to choose our marriage, it is a rare and wonderful blessing.”
Kailee nodded her agreement even as her heart sank a little lower. “Not when your husband loves another.”
Kailee was certain that many of the women of the court already knew that Tynthanal had had a child with Chanlix. He refused to make a secret of the child’s parentage, and his dalliance with a former abigail could not but raise a few eyebrows—and give ladies another reason to pity Kailee. But figuring Oona’s isolation meant she had not heard the rumors, Kailee told her about Chanlix and little Chantynel Rah-Tynthanal. The two people Tynthanal loved above all others, and with whom Kailee could never hope to compete.
“I knew all of this before I married him,” Kailee said. “I encouraged him to maintain his relationship with Lady Chanlix, because I did not want to come between them. She was very kind to me while I lived in Women’s Well, even though she had so many reasons why she might hate me.” She sniffled, then wiped at her eyes, surprised to find she was crying again. It was unlike her.
Oona squeezed her shoulder once more. “I’m very sorry,” she said, and there was no missing the sympathetic pain in her voice. “I know all too well what it feels like to love a man you cannot have.”
“But at least you knew that Delnamal loved you back,” Kailee countered. And of course Oona had married him, eventually. Not that the marriage seemed to have brought her much in the way of joy.
“I don’t think that was necessarily a good thing,” Oona said. “Perhaps if I didn’t know he loved me back, I could finally have given up on him and tried harder to love the man I was married to. I think I could have loved him, had I not already closed my heart to him when we wed.”
“I’m sorry,” Kailee said, ashamed of her selfish assumption. “I hadn’t thought of it that way.”
Oona waved off her apology. “Do you think it’s possible Tynthanal might allow you to live apart from him in Women’s Well? The arrangement is not unheard of, and it would give you the freedom to live your own life. Though I must say I would miss you very much.”
“He’s offered,” Kailee admitted. “And all logic tells me I should accept. I just…I just can’t.”
Oona nodded. “You’re not ready. But I hope with a little time you’ll come to see that you deserve a life of your own and a chance to be happy. If Tynthanal can’t give you that, then you should take advantage of the fact that the Blessing and the existence of Women’s Well allows you to separate from him without the repercussions our predecessors had to face.”
Everything Oona said was true and right. And yet Kailee didn’t know if she would ever find the will to take advantage of the freedoms of this new world order.
* * *
—
When Chanlix rose from her obligatory curtsy, Alys couldn’t resist the urge to give her friend a hug. Chanlix laughed and patted her back.
“One would think you hadn’t seen me for months,” Chanlix quipped, although she returned the hug with enthusiasm.
Alys squeezed a little tighter, then reluctantly let go. “I’ve seen my lady chancellor every day, and my niece’s mother nearly as often, but I can’t remember the last time I’ve had a cozy dinner with my friend.”
The admission made Alys suddenly feel weepy, and she quickly turned to the table for two that had been set in her favorite parlor. A cheery fire burned in the fireplace, fighting off the evening chill, and a bottle of most excellent wine was waiting for them. Alys swallowed the lump in her throat as she poured two glasses without asking Chanlix if she wanted any. And she prayed Chanlix would not notice—or would at least pretend not to notice—her fragile state of mind.
Composing her face, Alys turned to her friend with what she hoped was a bright smile and held out the glass of wine. Chanlix’s face wore an expression of gentle concern, but thankfully she refrained from asking Alys what was wrong.
Mentally rolling her eyes at herself, Alys took a deep swallow of her wine. There was nothing wrong, not really. Not beyond the usual stresses and strains of being a sovereign princess in a fledgling principality that some parts of the world would love nothing better than to wipe from the map. And yet still, Alys was struggling as of late, feeling the isolation of a sovereign’s role with more bitterness than ever.
“I’m sure we can arrange to do this more often,” Chanlix said. She smiled. “If you don’t mind waiting until Chantynel is down for the night to have your dinner.”
Alys forced an answering smile and felt like the worst auntie in the history of Seven Wells. Not that she didn’t adore Chanlix’s infant daughter—of course she did!—but it was impossible not to notice how thin Chanlix was stretched by the competing duties of motherhood and statesmanship. Nor could Alys fail to see that Chanlix often suffered from a melancholy that rivaled her own. Even as Chantynel absorbed so much of Chanlix’s energy, she constantly reminded her mother of what she had lost. It hurt Alys’s heart that her friend was hurting and that she herself bore a great deal of the blame for it.
“I don’t mind in the least,” Alys assured her. “But I do remember how precious was my sleep when I was a new mother, so promise me you won’t let me keep you too long.”
Chanlix grinned at her. “Have your footmen ready a litter so that they may carry me home when I start snoring at the table.” She took a sip of her wine. “And don’t you dare pour a second glass for me unless you wish to see me facedown in my soup.”
Alys laughed—though not without another pang of guilt—and they spent the rest of the meal chatting amiably. But the moment the last of the remains had been cleared away, Alys sensed a change in Chanlix’s demeanor. Instead of being contentedly sleepy as she should have been after a decadent meal and the second glass of wine she’d been unable to resist, something about her became sharper, more alert.
Alys’s heart sank as she realized that Chanlix had not in fact suggested this casual dinner together as a pure act of friendship. It stung, although Alys felt instantly guilty for being selfish. When she had accepted the title of sovereign princess, she had accepted the reality that she could never again have a completely uncomplicated relationship. Not with friends, not with family.
“You have something you want to talk about?” Alys asked, keeping her voice as light as she knew how.
Chanlix smiled at her, but there was a hint of wariness—or maybe just concern—in her eyes. She hesitated a moment, then blew out a quick breath.
“I suppose I should just blurt it out instead of trying to find some subtle, tactful way to ask,” she said ruefully, then met Alys’s gaze with something of a challenge. “I wanted to ask you if you were planning to put aside your mourning wardrobe anytime soon. It has, after all, been over a year.”
Alys could not prevent herself from flinching, looking down at the dour black brocade that draped her. Every morning, Honor offered her the choice of a black gown or a gown of some other dark, muted color, and every morning, Alys chose the black. Honor had finally stopped giving her reproving looks, and Alys wondered if she would someday stop offering the colored gowns.
Alys cleared her throat. “Yes, I know. It’s past time. But…” She tried to articulate the horror she felt at the thought of putting aside the mourning, but she doubted her ability to put it into words. How could she explain the choking panic that assailed her, the roiling in her gut, the irrational—she knew it was irrational—feeling that to put aside the mourning was to dishonor Jinnell’s memory?
“I never met your Jinnell,” Chanlix said gently, “but from what others have told me about her, I don’t think she would have wanted…”
“Don’t!” Alys interrupted sharply, her eyes burning with tears she refused to shed. Never mind that she sometimes woke from a deep sleep to find her face and her pillow soaked with them.
Chanlix held up her hands in surrender. “All right. But as your friend, I’m beginning to worry about you.”
Alys smoothed her skirts and stared at her hands. “I am not ready to be out of mourning,” she said, her voice leaving no room for argument.
Chanlix hesitated a beat. “And is that what you’ve told Duke Thanmir?”
Alys couldn’t hold back a startled gasp, her head suddenly whipping upward of its own accord as she met Chanlix’s now challenging gaze. “What?”
Chanlix gave her a look of reproach. “Come now, Alys. Surely you don’t think people haven’t made the natural assumption about why a royal duke of Grunir is suddenly showing such an interest in Women’s Well. Everyone knew what he wanted the first time he visited, and if they had any doubts, those were erased when he brought his daughter to meet you.”
Alys was sure her face was turning an unappealing shade of red. She had been so taken aback when Thanmir had first suggested the possibility of marriage! And yet now that Chanlix mentioned it, of course it had been obvious. To everyone but her—and that only because she had somehow managed to keep herself willfully ignorant.
Alys coughed, then cleared her throat, squirming in her chair like a small child caught in a lie.
“He seems like a good man,” Chanlix said gently. “Do you know that I was holding Chantynel the first time I met him, and he immediately charmed her and asked if he could hold her.” She smiled in remembrance. “Most noblemen of my acquaintance would blanch in horror at the idea of holding an infant not their own, but Duke Thanmir seemed genuinely eager.”
Alys was intrigued despite herself. “And did he know at the time that you are my lady chancellor?”
“He did,” Chanlix confirmed. “And if he found it at all distasteful to have an unwed mother serving on the royal council, he did an excellent job of hiding it.”
It was not hard to see that Chanlix had already formed a decided opinion as to how Alys should respond to Duke Thanmir’s proposal.
The truth was, if Alys could only relieve herself of all her inconvenient emotions, she would readily admit that Chanlix was right. Thanmir was about as close as it was possible to get to the perfect husband in her current situation.
“He would be a wonderful addition to Women’s Well,” Chanlix enthused, in case Alys had not already gotten the point. “And young Shalna seemed very much like the kind of young woman who would fit in well here. Lady Shelvon says the girl asked her extensive questions about her sword school and might very well want to join up.”
Alys nodded absently, for she could hardly argue any of Chanlix’s points. As Thanmir had clearly intended when he’d introduced them, Alys had immediately liked Shalna and her fiery spirit.
Externally, there was very little resemblance between Shalna and the daughter Alys had lost. Jinnell had certainly been the possessor of a fiery spirit, but she had disguised that spirit under a veneer of primness and properness, to the extent that even Alys hadn’t recognized it until Delnamal had begun his systematic campaign to destroy them. Shalna’s spirit was much more overt, her eyes often flashing with challenge instead of demurely lowered. And she bore little physical resemblance to Jinnell, either. Jinnell had been beautiful, with a willowy figure and raven-black hair reminiscent of her grandmother’s. Shalna might at best be termed attractive, her face somewhat square in shape and her figure unfashionably thick, though her green-flecked hazel eyes and her rosebud lips softened her look, and her curly auburn hair gleamed a lustrous, rich red in the desert sun.