Mother of All

by Jenna Glass

  “Which she is,” Waldmir responded with an impatient wave of his hand. “We found her governess’s body under the snows, but no sign of the abigails or my daughter. If they had died on the journey, we would have found them by now. Let’s not waste time arguing over a falsehood.”

  “It is not a falsehood,” Ellin responded with some heat, and very little guilt. In the early days of her reign, she had felt twinges of conscience whenever political necessity had forced her to lie, but she had come to terms with that discomfort long ago. “It is past time that you accept reality. There are numerous routes the others might have taken, and it might not be possible to find their bodies until the snows melt. If then!”

  Waldmir crossed his arms, his cold eyes glinting in the afternoon light. If he were physically present, she might have found the stare intimidating. “I know Leethan is a seer,” he said. “And I know she puts a great deal of faith in her visions.”

  Ellin started at that, for it was rare for a man of Nandel to acknowledge even the existence of women’s magic, and she would have expected Waldmir to dismiss the possibility of seers as nothing but feminine superstition.

  “I can think of no reason why she would have fled the Abbey with Elwynne except that she did so at the prompting of one of those visions,” Waldmir continued. “I won’t claim to understand these visions or how they work, but I know enough about them—and about Leethan—to very much doubt she would have attempted such a dangerous journey only to die in the crossing.”

  “But even if that’s the case, there’s no reason to be so certain she intended to come here,” Ellin argued. “She was born in Grunir, wasn’t she? Perhaps she has gone home to her family.” A family that would very likely refuse to acknowledge her after her banishment to the Abbey, but it still seemed to Ellin like a perfectly reasonable assumption.

  The cold glint in Waldmir’s eyes was now matched by the sneer that twisted his lips. “You have a woman’s skill for lying, I’ll grant you that, but I am tired of playing this game. My men interviewed the women of the Abbey in hopes of gaining more information about Leethan’s plans. It’s clear she confided in no one, but in the course of these interviews, my men encountered some speculation that the child may not be mine. I expect Leethan was well aware of this speculation and that she thinks she is taking Elwynne to Rhozinolm to deliver her to her ‘true’ father.”

  “Why do you care so much?” Ellin asked in exasperation. “Isn’t it better for you if Elwynne is gone? You need never again fear that she will be proven not to be your child, and therefore you need never fear the humiliation of having your people know you were cuckolded by your own nephew. Unless it’s just that you hate the idea that you have lost your leverage over Zarsha now that you no longer have his daughter as a hostage.”

  “She’s not Zarsha’s daughter,” Waldmir said. “She’s mine.”

  Ellin blinked, for there was no hint of doubt in Waldmir’s voice. “You can’t know that,” she said faintly. “Unless…”

  Waldmir nodded. “Unless I lowered myself to using women’s magic to test her paternity,” he finished. “You already know that I have on occasion resorted to using women’s magic when I felt it necessary.”

  Ellin did indeed know that. In fact, Waldmir’s reliance on potency potions to fulfill his marital obligations was one of the secrets Zarsha held over his uncle’s head. According to Zarsha, if the people of Nandel believed he needed a potency potion to perform, their hatred of women might cause them to deem him functionally a woman and therefore unfit for the throne. Which seemed ludicrous to Ellin, but obviously Zarsha understood the ways of Nandel better than she.

  “Elwynne is my daughter,” Waldmir finished. “I will make no claims to a great and abiding paternal love for the girl, but she is mine.” Ellin could not see anything but Waldmir’s upper body, but there was a sound that could only be the pounding of a fist on wood. “Give. Her. Back.”

  This was a new and unpleasant wrinkle in an already complicated game. Waldmir already thought that Princess Alysoon had “stolen” one of his other daughters—Shelvon, the erstwhile Queen of Aaltah, who had fled to Women’s Well and been divorced in absentia by her husband. Ellin knew he had demanded the woman’s return, although it was no secret that if she returned to Nandel she would be instantly locked up in the Abbey. He did not value his daughters as people, but he did value his possessions.

  “We. Don’t. Have. Her,” Ellin responded, leaning forward in her chair and returning his challenging glare with one of her own.

  “You had best reconsider your position,” he growled. “You will soon need to decide whether to send your army to the aid of Aaltah and Women’s Well. I imagine you might find it difficult to win over your royal council to such a war if I was to renege on our trade agreements.”

  He was not wrong about that, and there was no doubt that if he was telling the truth about Elwynne’s true paternity, she had very little cause to keep the girl in Rhozinolm, even if there weren’t so much at stake.

  However, although she suspected Waldmir was telling the truth, there was no reason to accept him at his word. And also, if Leethan’s vision had led her to bring Elwynne to Rhozinolm, surely there was a reason for it. Ellin wasn’t sure how much faith to put in Leethan’s vision, but she most certainly needed time to think and present the new facts to Zarsha before she made any decision.

  “If Elwynne somehow manages to arrive here despite all the odds,” she said, “then I will be willing to consider sending her back home in the spring, when it is safe to travel once more. But I will tell you one more time: as of now, she is not in our custody. Rest assured I will contact you the moment that changes.”

  Without waiting for Waldmir to issue more threats, Ellin opened her Mindseye and plucked the mote of Rho out of the talker, ending the conversation.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  It was well past bedtime, but Leethan refused to surrender to sleep until she had absolutely no choice. Her whole body ached with exhaustion, and she knew without having to look that her eyes were bloodshot and her cheeks gaunt. But though she longed to crawl into bed and sleep, she knew the effort would be futile. The dream that had only occasionally troubled her throughout the course of her long life had now prevented her from getting anything resembling rest for the last seven nights. In desperation, she had tried napping during the day, but the dream insisted on visiting her then, too.

  She sat in a chair by the fire in the safe house’s cozy parlor, while the rest of the household—save for a few of the queen’s men who guarded them—lay snug and snoring in their beds. She had tried distracting herself with needlework, but had found wielding a needle while sleep-deprived led to bloody fingers. Then she’d tried reading a book, but her sluggish mind refused to focus on the page, wandering off at the slightest provocation. Now she found herself doing nothing but staring at the flames and brooding. Eventually, she would likely fall asleep in this chair and relive the cursed dream yet again, and there was nothing she could do to stop it.

  Her chin was just dipping toward her chest when she heard a soft knock on the front door. The sound jerked her awake, and she heard the door opening, followed by voices conversing quietly. She frowned in the direction of the hallway, wondering who could possibly have come calling at this time of night.

  Not that anyone came calling at any time of day. Neither Leethan, nor Jaizal, nor Elwynne had set foot outside the house since they’d arrived, and Leethan knew she was not the only one chafing at the confinement, however well she might understand the need for secrecy.

  She sat up straighter as footsteps approached. She expected to see one of the house’s faux-footmen come through the door to announce the unexpected visitor, but sucked in a breath of surprise when she saw that it was Prince Zarsha himself.

  Feeling clumsy and slightly stupid, Leethan rose to her feet and curtsied. She wasn’t entirely sure what the offici
al protocol for meeting with the prince consort was—only a small handful of men in all of the history of Seven Wells had ever borne that title, and it was ordinarily one that lasted only for the few days between the man’s marriage to a sovereign and his own investiture as the new sovereign—but she assumed he should be granted exactly the respect she would grant any other sovereign’s spouse.

  “Forgive me, Your Majesty,” she said, fighting off a chill of foreboding that said he was not here to deliver good news. “I was not expecting…That is…” She cleared her throat and shook her head, wishing she could fight off the fog that kept her thoughts so indistinct.

  “No need to apologize,” he answered swiftly, frowning at her ever so slightly. “I should perhaps have sent word that I was coming, especially at this hour. And, er, I am properly addressed as Your Highness, though far be it from me to be a stickler over such a triviality.” He looked ever so slightly uncomfortable with the honorific, which she supposed reflected his Nandel sensibilities. He was the most cosmopolitan Nandelite she had ever known, but it was clear from his unfashionably plain dress that he retained some of the Nandelite disdain for ostentation and ceremony.

  Leethan fought a yawn as it occurred to her that Zarsha should by all rights have discovered the entire household asleep at this late hour. “Is something wrong?” she asked, although she was too tired to muster the level of alarm his unexpected presence might reasonably have caused.

  “No, no,” he hastened to assure her. “Please forgive the late hour, but it is not easy for me to slip away from the palace unobserved, and I did not want to risk arousing curiosity about this house or its occupants.”

  “Would you like some tea?” she asked, belatedly realizing that although she did not own the house, it was nevertheless her duty to serve as hostess. She frowned as soon as the offer was made, sure that the kitchen staff were already long in their beds.

  Zarsha waved off the offer. “No need to trouble yourself or anyone else. And please do sit down. You look…” He frowned. “Are you unwell?”

  Leethan grimaced and accepted his suggestion that she should sit. Weariness dragged at both her limbs and her mind, and she longed for sleep—true sleep, restful sleep—with a passion that bordered on desperation.

  “I’m fine,” she lied, forcing a half-hearted smile. “I just haven’t been sleeping well,” she added when she saw that his frown had not abated.

  “It’s more than that,” he responded. “You’re not still worrying we might send you back, are you?”

  “No.” She hadn’t even thought about the possibility in the last week. But that dream…

  Well, she was still doing her best to convince herself the dream was not prophetic, but apparently some part of her had already decided that it was, for that was the only way she could explain her lack of worry about being sent back to Nandel. As diplomatically wise as it might be for Queen Ellinsoltah to give in to Prince Waldmir’s demands for her return and that of little Elwynne, the dream suggested that she and Waldmir would meet and confront each other on the shores of a sea.

  Zarsha raised an eyebrow at her. “Then what is it?”

  “It’s nothing,” she insisted, but even she could hear the lack of conviction in her voice. Ordinarily, she was a very private person, one who had long ago learned to keep her thoughts and her fears to herself. She shared a great deal with Jaizal, but even with Jaizal she always kept a hint of reserve. Even so, right now she felt as if the truth were hammering at her breastbone, demanding an escape. “I’ve been having some disturbing dreams. I’ve had them before, so it’s nothing to be concerned about.”

  “You are in Rhozinolm now,” Zarsha reminded her. “There are a wealth of potions available at the Abbey that are specifically designed to help with troubled sleep. You need but to ask, and your servants will acquire some for you. They are not especially expensive, and well within the budget we have set aside for your comfort.”

  “Thank you, Your Highness,” she said with a bow of her head. If she truly were trying to keep her troubles to herself, she could easily have stopped there. A quick change of subject might not fully reassure Zarsha that all was well, but surely he would be satisfied with having suggested she procure some sleep potions.

  Indeed, she had every intention of changing the subject by asking him why he was visiting—it certainly wasn’t to present polite inquiries into the status of her health and welfare—but somehow her tongue was reluctant to obey her. Instead of changing the subject, she found herself adding, “It is a perfectly reasonable suggestion, but I doubt it will help.”

  Zarsha cocked his head at her, his curiosity fully piqued.

  What had come over her? It seemed exhaustion had chipped away at her self-control and all but erased her habitual reticence. Either that or she simply felt so desperate for a solution that she couldn’t stop herself from seeking aid even from someone who was little better than a stranger to her.

  “What is it you wished to see me about?” she belatedly asked, knowing full well she had told him far too much to expect him to let it go. Not when he was looking at her like that.

  “Tell me what is troubling you first,” he insisted. “When a known seer seems so troubled, it is more than a little worrisome to those of us who believe in the validity of visions.”

  “It’s not a vision,” she said. “I haven’t triggered one of those since I left the Abbey.” She was in no condition to withstand the torments of a seer’s poison even if circumstances had made her think drinking one was a good idea. “It’s just a dream.”

  Zarsha shifted in his chair. “I’ve never known a dream to leave anyone looking quite as haunted as you now look.”

  “It’s not just a dream,” said a voice from the doorway, and both Leethan and Zarsha jumped. Jaizal smiled at their startled expressions as she entered the room. She was wrapped in a dressing gown, her hair tucked up under a nightcap. If she hadn’t spent most of her youth whoring at the Abbey, she would not have let any man—much less the Prince Consort of Rhozinolm—see her in such a state of undress, but any semblance of modesty had long ago been beaten out of her.

  “Forgive me for interrupting, Your Highness,” she said to Zarsha, giving him a quick curtsy. “I am Sister Jaizal, though I presume you don’t need me to tell you that.”

  Leethan noted that Jaizal had used the correct form of address for him, and she wondered how long Jaizal had been listening in the hallway.

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance,” Zarsha said with a dry little smile on his lips. “Why do you say it is not just a dream?”

  “Jaizal, please,” Leethan begged, her eyes suddenly burning with tears. It was bad enough that she’d burdened her friend with the knowledge of these dreams; she did not want to tell yet another person about them.

  Jaizal gave her a quick, pitying look before she turned her attention back to Zarsha. “She’s had a recurring dream off and on for most of her life, but she’s never before had it more than once or twice in a year, and it’s usually several years between occurrences. She’s had it every night since she arrived in Zinolm Well. I cannot help thinking that the dream is prophetic, and Leethan believes so as well, no matter how desperately she denies it.”

  Leethan tried her best to glare at her friend, but she just didn’t have the energy. Besides, it had probably been too late to keep her own counsel even before Jaizal had entered the room.

  Zarsha groaned and rubbed his eyes. “I cannot imagine the prophecy is an encouraging one, or it would not leave you looking so wasted,” he said to Leethan.

  “I know of no documented incident of a truly prophetic dream,” Leethan insisted. “This is…this is…” Her voice trailed off as she failed to find a more palatable explanation to serve up.

  “Tell me about the dream,” Zarsha said, and it was not a request.

  Leethan bowed her head in defeat, her eyes once
again filling with tears. The last thing she wanted to do just now was speak about the dream, and yet it seemed she had little choice.

  Jaizal came to sit on the arm of Leethan’s chair and put a comforting arm around her shoulders. Leethan was grateful for the gesture and felt a childish urge to curl into the warmth of her friend’s body and hide her face. But if she was to tell Prince Zarsha about her dream, it was best to get that ordeal over with as quickly as possible.

  Leethan looked at her hands rather than at Zarsha’s face as she recalled the details of the dream. She had gained no new revelations since she’d recognized Waldmir’s sword and her own hand, and the whole story sounded vaguely ridiculous to her own ears. She was more grateful than she could say for Jaizal’s warm and comforting presence at her side, even as a part of her was cursing her friend for forcing her hand.

  When at last she’d finished her story, she risked a glance at Zarsha’s face, expecting to see skepticism, if not outright disbelief. He would find the dream ridiculous, and her worries that it might be prophetic were just foolish flights of fancy. She was so sure of it that it took her a moment to comprehend his true expression, which was one of downright shock.

  Zarsha closed his eyes for a moment—whether in an attempt to school his expression or just in thought, Leethan could not guess. When he opened them again, the intensity of them was so fierce and chilling that she nearly jerked back in her chair. His demeanor was so different from Prince Waldmir’s that one rarely reminded her of the other, but she unquestionably saw the family resemblance in those eyes.

  “Are you aware of what has been happening in Khalpar recently?” he asked.

  Leethan shook her head. “Even when I was in the Abbey, my knowledge of world affairs was always terribly outdated, and I’ve heard nothing of the goings-on in the world since I left it.” Not only was the world meant to forget about the abigails who were condemned to live behind the Abbey walls, but the abigails themselves were discouraged from displaying too much curiosity about the world of which they were no longer considered a part.