The Queen's Bastard

by C. E. Murphy

  “Yes, Your Majesty.” Belinda’s whisper barely reached the throne. Sandalia leaned forward, brushing her fingertips against her thumb, not quite a snap of sound.

  “Come forward, Lady Irvine. Let us examine Eliza’s artistry.”

  Javier’s chagrin faded at the interest—no more than polite, but there—in Sandalia’s tone, and at his mother’s use of Eliza’s name. Belinda took two careful steps up toward the throne, its daised height helping to make up for Sandalia’s diminutive size. Jav’s throne, angled to the right and a step below the queen’s, still put his head nearly level with hers; she was, indeed, not a tall woman. “Turn,” Sandalia ordered, and Belinda did, eyes cast out and up to examine the throne room briefly and thoroughly from the closest she might ever come to royalty’s vantage.

  Courtiers and hangers-on watched with envious eyes, belittling gazes, anger, and lust; they were a wash of colour, coveting Belinda’s position above them and resenting her for it. It took no gift to understand that; she could see it from their expressions, painted with politeness that lay too thin over rage: there were daughters who belonged where she now stood, favoured of the prince. There were sisters who had been overlooked. Belinda would find no friends within the Lutetian court, though should she hold her place with Javier, she had no doubt that dagger-smiling women would flock to her side.

  “Pink,” Sandalia said when Belinda had completed her circuit. “An unusual shade for a woman, Lady Beatrice.”

  Sudden impishness caught Belinda with a smile. “It was that or a tartan, Your Majesty. Mademoiselle Beaulieu thought the dress better suited to pink.” She let the Lanyarchan burr come through strong in her Gallic, everything about her delivery bright and delightful, though her heart hung between beats and she felt nothing but calculation as her gaze flickered to the queen again, seeking approval at her audacity.

  Her heart crashed into motion again as Sandalia lifted an eyebrow so discreetly it didn’t so much as mar the smooth skin of her forehead, then allowed herself a full-mouthed twist of a smile that reminded Belinda unexpectedly of Eliza. “We are inclined to agree.” Sandalia’s voice warmed a little more, her brown eyes curious on Belinda’s face. “It is not an unattractive shade for a woman of your colouring. We’re not certain we would see it as pink at all, if there were not so many layers to enhance it. Tell us, Lady Beatrice, do you think we would look well in Mademoiselle Beaulieu’s fashions?”

  Hope surged from Javier, so sharp and controlled it cut through Belinda’s heart. She kept her eyes from him, knowing that the answer couldn’t be tainted by seeking his approval; Sandalia would see that, and think less of her, and even more, less of Eliza, for it. But the queen had called Eliza by a title, far from the belittlement she’d first used, and that, combined with the question, emboldened Belinda to lift her gaze and study Sandalia’s petite form with a cautiously critical eye.

  “Your Majesty…” Belinda tilted her head, then took a deep breath, risking her place in Sandalia’s court on a moment of truthfulness. “Your Majesty, if you will forgive a blunt Lanyarchan assessment, you have a form that women envy and men covet, and very likely the other way around as well.” Dismay sparked from Javier’s direction, but Belinda went on, eyes earnest on the queen. “This style of gown would enhance Your Majesty’s finest assets and help to prove that youth’s bloom is not yet gone from Your Majesty’s face or figure. That said, Your Majesty is not especially tall, and truthfully, I would have to see one of mademoiselle’s gowns on Your Majesty to say whether the straight lines of current fashion lend a gravitas and height that a woman of power might feel necessary, or whether the soft femininity of looser lines might enhance her strength in its own way. I would like very much to see it,” she finished, deliberately wistful, then added a twist into her smile. “If for no other reason than I believe Your Majesty would look lovely in this fashion, and the idea of the Aulunian queen echoing it amuses me. It would suit Your Majesty; it would not suit her.”

  Nor would it. Belinda thought Lorraine too wise to fall for such an obvious prat, but she was vain and considered herself—rightfully, as a queen—as a maker of fashion. Moreover, there was something inherently youthful about the loose lines of Eliza’s design, and Lorraine’s vanity was tightly tied to an unaging, girlish self-image. To have such a fashion come out of Lutetia and to have it look poorly on her might injure an enormous pride that Belinda had no need to prick, but which suited Beatrice enormously.

  Emotion raged behind Sandalia’s mild expression. Belinda could all but taste it, sudden glee on the Essandian princess’s part at the idea of flaunting the sixteen-year gap between her age and Lorraine’s. Belinda had no need to touch the queen’s hand and read her thoughts: amusement and avarice washed off her, almost as clear as words, and echoed the lines Belinda wanted her to follow. Setting a new fashion, one that played to her youth, would remind not just the Gallic and Essandian peoples but the Aulunians, that Lorraine was aging, and Sandalia still so young as to be able to bear another heir. That she was only just young enough hardly mattered; Lorraine, at fifty-five, still seemed to flirt with the idea, and if a people could accept that, they could far more readily believe that thirty-nine-year-old Sandalia might mother a second child.

  Moreover, there was the question of Javier. Lorraine had no heir and Javier, as grand-nephew to Lorraine’s father’s, first—and by the Ecumenical church, only legitimate—wife, had in the eyes of many the only genuine claim to the Aulunian throne. Sandalia was comfortable in her position as regent, reluctant to give away her power to a son whom some murmured should have taken the throne at his sixteenth year. Reminding Aulun of Javier’s presence, even in so simple a way as introducing new fashions that played to vitality and beauty, could benefit an intention to set the prince on Aulun’s throne, leaving her own seat in Gallin unchallenged.

  Belinda lowered her eyes, no longer certain if she followed Sandalia’s emotion or her own—plan, she found herself thinking, and the stillness came over her whether she wanted it to or not.

  We face insurrection against our own beloved queen. Robert’s words hung heavily in Belinda’s mind, his voice as clear as if she heard him speaking now. She had come to Lutetia to seek out a plot against a pretender reaching for Aulun’s throne, and to whisper word of that plot in her father’s ear when the time came. That the seeds of it lay dormant in the men and women she’d met, Belinda had no doubt. It was too soon, too soon by far, to know whether Sandalia herself strove for the ends threatened by Robert’s warning, but something new shaped itself now. If those ends were not yet in place, then Belinda herself might put them there, might push and prod the pieces into place in order to devastate Gallin and Essandia alike, leaving Aulun and Lorraine and the Reformation unchallenged in western Echon.

  Coldness spurted through Belinda’s hands, alien ambition rising in her so rapidly that only the safety of self-imposed and uncrackable control kept her breath from quickening. All her life she had been sent to spy, to do murder, and to inspire treacherous lust. Never had she found herself so close to guiding strings with her own fingers. There did not have to be rebellion to root out, nor a queen piece to dislodge. She could build the rebellion, and damn a princess in the making of it.

  Inexplicable joy tore her heart upward, giving it the wings of desire and excitement, so unfamiliar to her as to nearly undo her. For an instant even her control faltered, a smile of astonishment playing at her lips. Had Robert intended her to step into such a powerful position, or did his intelligence lead him to deeper plots than she had yet seen? The latter she would discover, and the former, if it was not so, would be a jewel in her crown of quiet triumphs.

  Sandalia saw the smile that touched Belinda’s lips and read it the only way she could, her voice light and amused. “It is a dangerous thing to heap laughter on one monarch’s head when you stand in the presence of another, Lady Beatrice.”

  Belinda lifted her gaze to the Gallic queen and let her smile come more fully, no repentance in it. �
�Yes, Your Majesty.”

  To her delight, Sandalia laughed aloud and Javier, at his mother’s right elbow, slumped a few inches in his seat, shooting Belinda a look that told her all too clearly what a fine line she’d chosen to walk. She didn’t dare drop a wink of reassurance, both propriety and her own relief preventing it, but her smile crinkled her eyes, more emotion than she was accustomed to letting through. “We will see your Eliza in our private chambers next week, Javier,” Sandalia said. “We prefer not to be offered pink. You may go.”

  Fierce delight and a thick wave of gratitude swept out from the ginger-haired prince, though he merely inclined his head and crooked a small smile of his own. “Yes, Mother. I’ll tell her.” He stood, executing an elegant bow to the tiny woman who’d birthed him, and Sandalia put a hand on his arm as he turned away.

  “Do not become too attached, Javier.” She spoke precisely loud enough for the command to reach Belinda’s ears as well as her son’s. “Your young lady is bold and clever, but Essandia and Gallin’s crown prince will not marry a Lanyarchan upstart.”

  “I never dreamed he would.” Javier pitched his voice as she had, courtiers straining to hear and to look as though they weren’t trying to. “Nor did she.”

  “Women always say that.” Sandalia released Javier’s arm, then offered Belinda a token that would have the court dancing on her wishes: “We would enjoy your company at supper tomorrow evening, Lady Beatrice. Wear something impetuous, and be prepared to discuss Lanyarch and Cordula. I would fain to hear how our sister Ecumenics do under Alunaer’s rule.”

  “Your Majesty.” Belinda curtsied so deeply as to doubt her own ability to rise again, Javier saving her from an ignominious failure by offering a hand as she began to straighten. She ducked her head in thanks and slipped her fingers into the crook of his elbow, listening to a wave of murmurs crest before them and ripple after them as they left the hall.

  Only outside it did she clutch Javier’s arm in half-real alarm. “Wear something impetuous?” she whispered. “What would she have me do, wrap a sheet in ribbon and leave my breast bared, like the statues of ancient Parna?”

  Javier laughed aloud, as easily as his mother had done moments earlier. “We’ll ask Eliza to dress you, and your tongue will be impetuous enough. What were you thinking, Bea? Comparing Mother to Lorraine?”

  “Comparing her favourably,” Belinda retorted. “Sandalia is nearly as close to belonging on the Aulunian throne as my queen as you are to belonging on it as my king. She should sit in Lanyarch as queen and you are to be crown prince to—”

  “To a land of rabble-rousers in skirts, by your reckoning,” Javier said coolly, “as well as heir to Essandia and Gallin.”

  Ice flew over Belinda’s skin, caution come too late. She drew her lower lip into her mouth, a show of contriteness that went deeper than she expected it to. “I’m sorry, my lord.” The apology was whispered, all she dared. “I meant no disrespect for the position you now hold. It is only—”

  “An endless desire to replace Lorraine with an Ecumenic ruler,” Javier said, still cool. “Your lust, Beatrice, has better places to show itself. I will not hear words of sedition against Aulun spoken near my mother, not when the Titian Bitch seeks any excuse she can find to unseat her and have her put to death.”

  “Sandalia is a queen in her own right,” Belinda said steadily. “It does not do to openly commit regicide, even if, especially if, you’re another regent. Take her power, yes, I’m sure Lorraine would do that. But having her killed, Javier.” Her voice softened. “I think even the Aulunian queen would balk at that.”

  More than Beatrice’s naïveté allowed Belinda to speak the protest. Lorraine’s reluctance to have another sovereign put to death was a topic at her court, discussed vigorously, well out of the queen’s hearing. Men thought it a sign of a woman’s weakness and her unsuitability to rule; women, if they thought anything, kept it to themselves, opinions private enough that not even Robert knew how the ladies of the court felt about the queen’s reticence in securing her throne through bloodshed. Belinda believed them to think as she did, because she did, that regicide was a dangerous precedent, and should it be used it must be done untraceably. It was not weakness, but prudence, and moreover, a public and well-known horror of such means could only stand the queen well should her rivals fall unexpectedly.

  A bloom of satisfaction took Belinda’s breath, then eased it into a smile. She made it winsome, turned it on Javier in hopes of soothing his pique, and let herself ride pleasure that had nothing to do with gross physical delight and everything to do with a necessary job done well. It cannot be found out. It never would be. There were far worse things than a lifetime spent in the shadows: a lifetime of uselessness was a condemnation Belinda couldn’t imagine. Lorraine could, and would, retain her moral stance, and might well never know the details of the dance that helped keep her enthroned. She did not, in Belinda’s estimation, need to; impossible choices could be lifted from a queen’s hands and given over to another to ease her way as easily as might happen for anyone else. More easily, perhaps: the royal name inspired a loyalty that an ordinary man might never command.

  “I think you understand less than you imagine of the affairs of royalty,” Javier snapped, unmoved by her hopeful smile. “Being on my arm does not make you privy to the thoughts or means of those above you.” His witchpower was extended, an unconscious and indomitable expectation that she would acquiesce. Belinda permitted herself the luxury of imagining to grind her teeth, imagining tightening her fingers on his arm in irritation, all in a core of her so deep she barely felt relief from those internal allowances. Pride, strange thing that it was, would not allow her to actually roll beneath the prince’s will, but unlike the moment of challenge at the drinking house, she at least did not stand against it, did not meet his urge to conquer with her own untouchable centre of stillness.

  “I’ll watch my tongue, my lord,” she murmured instead. “Forgive me my impertinence.”

  Javier relaxed, confident of his supremacy. “It’s easy to forget your provinciality,” he offered magnanimously, then dropped his voice to add, “particularly knowing that which we share.”

  Belinda deliberately dimpled, stepping ahead to twitch her skirts at him, eyes bright with mischief. “A bed, my lord?”

  Javier surged toward her with a laughing growl, and she skipped out of reach with an obligatory squeal. An instant later they were running down the halls of the palace, the one after the other, given over to playfulness that different circumstances forbade both from often indulging in.

  “I am bored with these tricks, my lord. There must be more the power can do.” Belinda lay on her belly on Javier’s bed, shoes abandoned and her feet kicked up behind her, a palmful of witchlight glowing in her hand. It winked out as she spread her fingers, earning Javier’s scowl.

  “It took me months to call the light consistently, Beatrice. You can’t abandon your practise after a few weeks because you find it dull, nor can we risk pursuing our gifts too far. You know what would happen if we were found out.”

  Beatrice flung away his protest with a wave of her hand, fully aware he was right and still too impatient to bow to his will. “How old were you when you began, my lord?” she said irritably. “I’m an adult, my power matured.”

  “I was ten,” Javier admitted. “But that means nothing.”

  “It means everything,” Belinda said. “You flex your power, Javier, weight others with your will. I wrap myself, hide myself, in mine. I’d been practising that for years by the time I was ten, long before power woke in me.”

  “Power you hid until I showed you it could be used,” Javier said shortly. “Women fear strength, Beatrice. You should see that from your own behavior. Now make the witchlight again.”

  Unwilling to throw the truth in his teeth, Belinda schooled her features and called another palmful of light to her hands. She wouldn’t allow irritation to fuel the soft golden orb; that would give Javier a score in a ba
ttle she could barely define. She wanted her strength to come from the control she’d learned through a lifetime’s practise, not from raw, manipulatable emotion. She heard Javier say, “Good,” and ignored him, subsuming annoyance beneath hard-won dominance. The witchlight wavered before stillness won out, serene confidence brightening her globe to brilliance.

  “Javier.” Belinda looked up, half-imagining warmth radiating from the light between her fingers. The prince turned to look at her, golden shadows warming his face and turning his eyes the shade of her magic. She sat up on her knees, cupping power, and flashed a smile. “Catch.”

  The impulse to throw it overhand, as hard as she could, shot through her. Instead she underhanded it, refusing the urge to use strength. It spun through the air in a delicate fiery arc.

  The air between herself and Javier flexed, Javier’s will thundering as though she’d offered an attack and he could end it by overwhelming her. Silver shot through the air, a shield of his own moonlit power. Belinda’s ball splashed against it, golden fire raining down in droplets, and she flinched back, feeling the impact as if she’d crashed against something solid herself. Javier’s eyes rounded, youthful dismay that brought forth a laugh that Belinda usually kept well under control. An external focus of power certainly had its uses, but the prince would never match her ability to hide expressions. She stretched out her hand, calling the fallen sparks of witchlight back to her, and held them against her bosom when they’d returned, her eyes bright on Javier’s. “Did you feel it?”