“You too.” She wanted to offer help again, inadequate though it would be, but she knew Thali would rebuff it. Underneath her self-possession, her unreadable coldness, Thali was scared. Terrified, even. Anyone who had their arms extended for balance didn’t dare reach for assistance.
MIRANTHA
KAROLJE RETURNS IN the late summer a year and a half after he left, the Tazekhs routed for the time being. He brings with him a boy who has gained five inches in height and an uncountable amount of power. He isn’t fourteen yet but is being treated as a man. He has his own Guard now, a handful of men sworn to him. They were vetted by Karolje, but Tevin chose them.
He is lost to me, Mirantha thinks as she looks up at Tevin for the first time.
“Hello, Mother,” he says, his voice deeper, and hugs her.
“I am very proud of you,” she says.
“Can I come tonight to tell you about it?”
“Of course. Please.”
But Karolje orders Tevin to stay beside him all evening for celebrations, and by midnight he still has not come.
* * *
They are finally able to see each other alone three days later. He is bursting with stories about battles he watched from a distance, men he met, the winter in Densk, the meetings with generals he spoke in. She listens, attending more to the sound of his voice than to his words, looking at this child she birthed who will one day be a king.
He fades into silence. Then he looks at her, with eyes that are not a child’s, and says, “We didn’t really win this war.”
“What do you mean?”
“Thousands and thousands of Vetian conscripts were slaughtered. There’s no one to do their work. Their families are angry with the king. And there are—on the way back—there are Tazekhs living in Vetia, and he killed them.” The maturity flees his face. “He did bad things to them, things they didn’t deserve.”
She goes to the door and opens it. No one is in the antechamber beyond.
“Tevin,” she says. “You know to tell these thoughts to no one else, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“The safest place to keep them is in your head. Now listen to me, and we will never speak of this again after tonight.
“Your father is cruel and unjust. A king is supposed to protect the powerless. Instead he hates people without power, because he sees in them what he fears most for himself. He will hurt anyone, hurt anything, in order to get what he wants, because he is too cowardly to face adversity. You will inherit a kingdom in tatters.
“You are too young to confront him. Wait. Keep your own counsel and be careful whom you trust. Listen much more than you speak. He will turn on you if he thinks he has to. No matter what happens, don’t try to protect me. You have to be strong and brave, and you can’t fall into hating anyone, even him. Don’t think about vengeance. Think about justice.
“And do everything you can for your brother. I’ve had time with him, but Karolje won’t let that continue, so it’s up to you.”
He kneels before her. “Mother,” he says. “You talk as if you’re going to die.”
“This might be the only chance we have. Once he learns you’ve been to see me, he’ll keep us apart. Don’t fight him about it. It’s not worth it. Save yourself for a later battle. Promise me, Tevin.”
He stares, now looking much younger, and licks his lips. His face is bloodless. He has had to promise difficult things before, but this is the first time he has to put into words what he already knows, that much of his life will consist of giving up the things he loves.
“Promise me,” she says, knowing he is too well-trained to weep, and fearing she is not.
He opens his mouth, shuts it, says in a voice that breaks, “I promise.”
His hands are larger than hers. She raises him and kisses his cheek. She says, “Whatever happens, you are my dear son. Now tell me what is next for you. What new duties do you have?”
* * *
When he learns of the talk, Karolje slams her into a wall so hard she cracks a rib. She stays in her rooms for a week, seeing no one. Twice she turns away Esvar, knowing it will hurt him, knowing she can’t risk him coming to his father’s eye. She reads and thinks. The Rukovili, over and over, not just the harpy poem but also the others, the love poems and the meditations, the sonnets that are painful with compassion.
Then she goes to the chapel.
Instead of Ashevi, Tahari is there. Lord Goran swooped down to marry her as soon as he heard rumor of her pregnancy, hoping no doubt to use the king’s bastard for his own gain. Mirantha did nothing to prevent it, though she knew Tahari might be harmed, as she has done nothing to prevent Goran’s other schemes against the king. The boy is a year old now and Tahari is pregnant again with Goran’s child. She has much to pray about; Karolje claimed her again his third night back. Mirantha wonders if there are bruises on her body too.
She must pretend that she has come to pray instead of to see her lover. She kneels a proper distance away and looks up at the god on the tree. The god who is not a harpy, the god who twisted suffering into power. Who demands sacrifice and returns nothing. Her cracked rib throbs.
Her hatred of Karolje blazes up from the pit where she has buried it. It is not right, it is not good, of her to hate, but is she supposed to love cruelty and injustice and oppression? He is evil, a demon in human form, a man who should not have power over a worm. And he has a kingdom to tear and rip as he pleases, to beat and torture as he beats her.
Beside her, Tahari sniffs loudly, the sound of someone trying to hold back tears. Mirantha looks at her. The girl’s face crumples. Mirantha pushes the libation bowls back and sits on the edge of the dais, one hand extended to Tahari.
“Come here, girl,” she says.
“I’m sorry, my lady, I’m sorry,” Tahari says through tears. “It’s all right, I shouldn’t be crying like this. It’s just the baby, everything’s all right.”
“If it was all right, you wouldn’t be here,” says Mirantha. She asks the question she is not supposed to ask. “Is it Karolje?”
Stricken, Tahari opens and shuts her mouth. Then it all spills out. “He wants to take my son from me. He says I cheated him by marrying Goran, that he will not have his child raised by a whore. Goran tells me to submit. I have submitted, over and over and o-o-over.” She turns away, covering her face with her hands.
The hatred narrows and sharpens into a point. It is too much. He has done too much evil. She trembles with rage, and the rage is joy that she drinks in, strength that she breathes in.
Tahari wipes her face and says again, “I’m sorry, my lady.” She stands and hurries out.
Mirantha gives her time to get well away, then sends a guard to find Ashevi and waits. He comes to the chapel half an hour later and locks the door. In that time she has committed herself.
She says, “I am done with him forever.”
“How done?”
“Done.”
It is the first time they have seen each other privately since Karolje’s return. They are standing beside the dais. The candles lit for the king’s safety have been removed, but the wall behind the altar is smudged with soot.
He says, “How much did he hurt you?”
“It’s painful to breathe. Don’t touch me.”
“Do you want me to help you leave?”
“I want you to help me kill him.”
He stares at her. She stares evenly back. “How?”
“I want you to bribe a guard to knife him in his sleep, or a woman to give him poisoned wine. I want it quick and clean.”
“If it’s quick and clean, it will look like murder,” he says. “You’ll be the first person they suspect.”
“There are many other people who hate him.”
“But if he dies, you’re the regent for Tevin. You benefit the most.”
“I don’t care if they kill me,” she says, but she does. Not for herself, but for her sons. “Is there no other way? Can it be done so that Goran is acc
used? He benefits too.”
“I’m a priest, not an assassin,” he says, tone edged with impatience.
“Then call a succubus to kill him in his bed!” she snaps.
“Don’t be a fool.”
“So there’s nothing. Are you going to tell Karolje I asked for it?”
“He knows about us,” Ashevi says, and she goes cold. She has feared it for years, but it is a different thing to hear it said. “He knows you hate him too. There is nothing to tell him.”
If he knows about us, why does he let it continue? she thinks. Perhaps Ashevi is lying. She can’t remember what truth looks like. She fears what he will do if she challenges him. It would not take much to hurt her, not now when she is already battered by Karolje.
She has been a fool, hoping for love, for kindness, for someone to take her part.
* * *
She considers ways to kill her husband. He is never unguarded, unless they are in bed, and she is not strong enough to fight him. It would have to be a trick, a hidden knife in his neck or heart. She would be hanged for it, or worse. There is no opportunity to feed him a slow poison. Guards stand duty in the kitchen when the king’s food is being prepared. None of the servants who support her will give their life. If she knew the tangled intricacies of power among the lords, she might find an ally, but she has been kept apart from them.
The knife is likeliest, but Tevin is young, too young to withstand the pressures that the lords will push against him when he sits on the throne. He is clever and brave, but he is not yet a man. Right now she can still support him, lend him her presence, and advise him, but if Karolje dies soon, it will be her own death warrant too, because Goran will not want to share power. Then who will there be to look out for her sons?
She wants to be free of everyone. Of Ashevi, of Karolje, of her sons, of the lords and servants. She wants to ride north and not stop until she is hundreds of miles away, surrounded by stone and pine. Away from hands that touch her and voices that implore her and eyes that distrust her.
It is a simple want, a pure want, cold as mountain snow.
I have never been Mirantha, she thinks. Father, husband, sons, always there is someone between her and herself. Ashevi holds the door open, but if she tries to step through, he will block her too. He brings her body to life, he knows how to give her ecstasy, but he doesn’t love her, not really. He loves the idea of her.
She recognizes that if things go on as they are, at some point she will tip over the line of caution. She writes letters to her sons, then tears them up and burns them. They are too dangerous. Love of any kind is fatal.
ESVAR THOUGHT HE had lost the capacity to be surprised or shocked. It had bled out of him during the whipping. When Marek told him Lady Jeriza had been arrested for treason, he felt only a dull curiosity as to why he had not foreseen it. He never should have spoken to Darvik.
“Where is she being held?” he asked.
“They brought her directly to the Green Court. Your brother is on his way. The arrest was on a king’s warrant.”
Karolje’s personal order. That and the Green Court meant there was to be a full indictment. The more usual thing would have been to put her uncharged in a cell, especially because then Karolje would not have needed to appear. If the king was showing himself, it was a trap of some sort, and Esvar had to walk into it with his eyes wide open.
“Am I ordered there?” he asked. He would go, regardless, but he needed to know Karolje’s expectations.
“No, sir.”
This game involved his honor, then, what he had left of it. He wondered if he should wear his sword. No. If there was to be physical violence, the plan would be for him to be outnumbered. He was a good swordsman, but the best of the Guard were better.
He dreaded the thought of returning to the Green Court, and when they arrived he let Marek open the door. He was half-afraid Lukovian’s ghost would try to steal its way into him. The execution had been quick, the heavy blade slicing through his neck in the space of a single breath.
Within were Tevin, Darvik, Jeriza, and six armed guards. Tevin had taken Jeriza aside. Her red gown looked close to black in the dim light. Two of the guards Esvar knew as loyal to Tevin despite not being his own sworn men, but the other four were ordinary soldiers who would follow Karolje’s orders.
Darvik hurried to him. His fine clothing was disheveled. A smear of dirt on his shoulder was probably from a hand restraining him. He said, “She’s not a traitor, she hasn’t done anything.” His voice was rough with suppressed fury.
“I know. Have you been told the specific charges?” Esvar asked.
“No, my lord.”
“Did you do anything? Loan money to someone? Contact the resistance?”
Darvik’s denial came a few breaths too late.
Esvar didn’t have the time to consider the transgression. It might have been petty. He said, “You’re not under arrest. I advise you to leave the chamber now, before the king comes. Wait in the antechamber.” Karolje meant to use Jeriza against her husband, and half his leverage depended on Darvik’s presence. The lord should realize that.
“I can’t leave Riza.”
“All you can do in staying is make yourself a larger target. And her. They’ll hurt or humiliate her more if you are watching. Leave, my lord.”
“She’s—” Darvik’s response was interrupted by the opening of a side door. The king entered, two more soldiers behind him. He walked slowly and looked weak, but he seated himself in the chair without awkwardness. His gaze flashed from one prince to the other as the room silenced.
“Up here,” he said. “You will witness this.”
Neither of them moved. Tevin’s body was set with defiance.
Karolje gestured. Steel whispered from scabbards like wind in a tree. One of Karolje’s men stepped forward and leveled his blade at Jeriza’s stomach. Everyone except the king froze.
“If you value the lady’s life, you’ll obey me,” said Karolje.
Darvik, who had turned to look at the king, glanced back at Esvar, who could do nothing from where he stood. Tevin was not close enough unless he could surprise the soldier. If she was killed, Darvik would blame them. He might get himself killed too. Karolje was going to have to be obeyed. Again.
Jeriza said, “I’m pregnant.”
The soldier’s sword wavered. The warm tones of his dark skin flattened. To kill a pregnant woman was a sin. Karolje might be able to get away with it if he killed with his own hand, but his soldiers wouldn’t.
Darvik was taut with fear, not surprise. She spoke the truth.
Good, Esvar thought savagely. Karolje was going to have to alter his plan.
“Come here, woman,” Karolje said. “And you, Darvik.”
Don’t do it, Esvar thought. He kept his mouth shut. The lord and lady obeyed and stood before the chair. Esvar followed as quietly as he could. No one seemed to notice; their attention was all fixed upon the king.
The king said, “I void your marriage. A child born in prison to an unmarried woman belongs to the Crown. I will allow you to live long enough to give birth. Be glad, Lady Jeriza. If the child is a boy, I will raise him as my heir.”
Darvik was so white Esvar could not see how he was still standing. He said, “You’re mad.”
“You’re superfluous,” said Karolje.
Esvar moved before the nearest soldier could, shoving Darvik aside and pulling Jeriza behind him. The tip of a soldier’s sword came to rest against his ribs.
“Traitor,” Esvar said. He heard Jeriza stumble toward her husband and Marek but did not move his eyes from the soldier’s face. “You’ve drawn on a prince of the blood. You know the penalty.”
The soldier, wisely, kept his mouth shut, but his blade did not waver. Esvar put his hand on his knife hilt. The pressure of the sword increased.
This isn’t how I die, he thought. He was calm, certain. He had never seen his own death, had no claim to see the future, but this could not be the moment, so
ignominious, so empty.
Deliberately, he turned his head to the king. “What do you command, Karolje? Do you countenance this betrayal?”
“Put up your blade, soldier,” Karolje said. “You may have his life, Prince, if you will take it now, with your own bare hands. If you are not man enough to do that, he has my pardon.”
The cage had slammed around him with no room to breathe. He could be a coward, or he could be a murderer. Either way he was Karolje’s tool.
Tevin spoke, his voice dripping with venom. “Are you ordering an execution, or a brawl?”
Karolje’s guards each stepped closer to Tevin. The king halted them with a raised hand. “Clear the room,” he said. “I will speak with the princes alone. But it is death to anyone who leaves the antechamber. Or who attempts to listen.”
Esvar nodded at Marek, then leaned insolently against the nearest of the pillars. He would not stand and be disciplined like a child. Karolje wanted something, or he would not have bothered to send the others out. Tevin folded his arms. It was the most outward and unified expression of defiance from the two of them in Esvar’s life. It might be the last.
The door shut. The silence built. Karolje hadn’t held power all these years for nothing. Even in his weakened body, his authority dominated the space.
At last the king spoke, not breaking the silence but controlling it. “You’re a pair of jackals frothing at the mouth with eagerness. Give it up. You can’t kill me, and I refuse to die.”
He grinned. His cheeks drew back, and Esvar had the horrible image of Karolje sitting on the throne in two hundred years, thin and frail as a dead leaf, flesh withered down to nothing, skin tight over bones, eyes as black and potent as they were now.
Tevin said contemptuously, “What is the point of this performance? You haven’t got an audience.”
Esvar knew there would be no explanation. The performance was its own point, and he and Tevin were part of it. Karolje was showing the puppets the strings. Because it amused him to do so, because one of them had tugged too hard, because he wanted them to see their weaknesses. It almost didn’t matter why.
The Vanished Queen Page 20