The Queen's Bastard

by C. E. Murphy

  Slipping into Sandalia’s private chambers was so easy as to bring frustrated tears to Belinda’s eyes. She remembered too clearly hours spent watching, waiting, hiding in plain sight, hoping for the chance to steal into other dignitaries’ quarters so she might fulfill her duties. A lifetime had been wasted in those petty behaviors, when she might have done what she now could, let shadow cloak her and force eyes to see through her even as she walked between armed guards and perfumed courtiers. She might have lived a life more like the one Javier had been born to, and been all the more secretive for it, as who could believe that a lady raised to the courts might have the skill or the will to thrust a dagger into a man’s ribs?

  Or a queen’s. The thought whispered so softly Belinda barely let herself admit she’d thought it. Ten minutes earlier, while the queen and her courtiers ate supper, Belinda had stood at Sandalia’s side, nimble fingers unfastening the catch on the Gallic regent’s necklace, so she could slip away the keys that opened Sandalia’s twice-locked office drawers. Once more so very easy, when she let desperation drive her. Too easy: had the court not expected Belinda Primrose to be buried in an oubliette until dawn, even the call of duty and the power riding her might not have pushed her into taking the risk. If anyone had dreamed she might be free, the shadows she cast around herself might have been breachable; it was only circumstance that allowed such tactics to be put to use. Still, the ease of it all made her burn with frustration and regret for a lifetime of harder choices.

  She might so easily have ended it there, taken Sandalia’s life in exchange for her own humiliation, but the tiny knife she carried no longer sat at the small of her back. For all its strength, Belinda doubted that witchpower would hide her through the process of strangling a woman with her bare hands. There were other ways to ensure Sandalia’s death, and Belinda would be far from the palace by the time they were set in motion.

  There was no light beyond frail moon shadows in Sandalia’s office. Belinda moved almost blindly, using flawless memory to step around the chairs and find the desk locks in the darkness. The fall of tumblers sounded loud as waterfalls as she opened them, sliding free parchment that condemned the queen with her own hand. Not just one queen, but two: Irina would not emerge unscathed, either, even if she denied with all vehemence that Akilina spoke on her behalf. Belinda leafed through the papers in the dim light, watching for the royal seal, then set them on the desktop, satisfied as she closed the drawer again.

  Another few minutes’ work picked the first lock carefully, triggering the glistening needle. She used the hem of her dress to slip the poisoned dart free, bringing it to her nose to sniff and place the poison by its scent. It had none discernible; the glistening material was likely to carry the poison, rather than be it. Pleasure curved her mouth and she smeared the stuff on the fabric before reaching for the elegant glass that sat on Sandalia’s desk. She wiped her hem around its edge, lacing it with poison, then tested the second lock to find another dart that she dropped into the nearest wine decanter. Sandalia’s papers would be protected with something strong. A thief caught by poison and able to talk was more useful than a dead one, but a dead man was better than one who managed to escape. Sandalia would not dare lose state secrets to a chance at survival.

  It was a pity Akilina couldn’t be expected to share the queen’s glass, but that was a dish best served cold; time would prove a chance to taste it. Belinda gathered up the parchment, a chill lifting hairs on her arms as if her very skin understood the import of what she touched, and she slipped toward the door, heart quick with triumph.

  It opened before she touched it, sending her back into shadows with a smothered gasp that turned to a soft, incredulous laugh. “Robert?”

  Her father, gratifyingly, flinched, then turned his head to gaze through darkness and find her unerringly. Belinda let witchpower go, feeling suddenly bright against the night, a beacon, and a smile turned one corner of Robert’s mouth. “So this is where you’ve gotten to, Primrose. I checked the dungeons.” His hand dipped into his vest—his clothes were still torn and stained, but he had straightened them on his body, made himself as presentable as a beaten man could be—and withdrew it again, silver glinting across his palm. “You seem to have lost something.”

  Another laugh broke from Belinda’s throat as she took the dagger from Robert’s hand. “Thank you. How did you…?”

  “I might ask you the same question, but neither is one to be addressed here. You have the treaties.” He took in her bundled armload with a pleased glance. “How wonderful. My temporary employer will be so disappointed. Return to Aulun, Belinda. Show Lorraine what you carry, and know that your work here will force a war to change everything.” He gave her a quick nod, turning away.

  “Father.” Belinda’s voice broke as it followed him. He turned back, arching an eyebrow, and she took a step toward him, crushing the papers against her chest. It was not the time; he was right. There would be another chance to ask the questions only he could answer. She knew patience; it was the only virtue she might call her own. Despite that, the words scraped out.

  “I remember, Robert. I remember Dmitri and the night you said it was too soon and came into my room to put a wall in my mind. I remember.” Surprise darkened Robert’s eyes; surprise and something else: a hint of respect, perhaps, and a touch of dismay. Belinda’s breath came short, need sparking off her so that she could nearly see it, golden fizzles of light born of her will alone. “All my life I’ve done Aulun’s bidding. I’m my mother’s creature; I’m yours. But what am I?”

  A smile had begun to crease his beard. It fell away at her precise words, at mention of her mother, and Belinda fought down the urge to hawk and spit with frustration. “My mother,” she repeated. “I know that, too. I always have, since the day du Roz died. I remember, Robert. Titian curls. Grey eyes, a pale face. I remember my birth. How can I? What am I?”

  Now the smile returned, covering pride and astonishment, and her father touched her cheek, gentle paternal action. “You are my daughter.” He nodded, still smiling, and she felt within him the same flex of will that Javier could command: a nearly unconscious expectation that no one would question him, or stand before his desires. She had once stood against Javier’s whim, not cowering; it had been enough, then. It no longer was.

  She stepped forward again, catching his arm with more strength than she knew she had, her fingers digging into his biceps. He dropped his gaze to her grasp, then lifted it again to meet her eyes with cool expectation.

  Belinda’s lip curled and she tightened her grip, rage and fear and witchpower boiling up in her. “Father.” Her throat ached from vehemence. “What am I?”

  “You would not understand if I told you—”

  Belinda let the parchment fall, clapping her freed hand to his face, almost a slap. Images, memories, words, all of them meaningless, shattered through her power: a creature vaster than any she’d ever imagined, sinuous and scaled, dangerous alien intelligence in its gaze. Respect beyond the profound for that monster; respect that was so inherent to her father that he literally could not live without it.

  That respect, transferred in some peculiar fashion to Lorraine Walter, and wry amusement at human weakness.

  A dragon in the stars, and a sleek silver thing that Robert’s mind called a ship, though it could no more sail on the seas than Belinda herself could. It rode on the wind, and in the black spaces of the sky above.

  Pain, so incredible it could only mean death, and then the mewling, horrible weakness of an infant’s form.

  A circle in the sky, like the moon, but blue and green and swirled with white. Ambition toward that sphere: clear focus, a deliberate plan.

  Robert’s will roared up, white and hard as a blow, no comforting scent of chypre in it, but only intent to break the drain of thought and memory. Belinda staggered back under the strength of his desire, head pounding, witchpower subdued. “I told you,” he said gently, all the dominance and authority of his will disappeared,
“that you would not understand. You have a purpose, Primrose. Let knowing that be enough for now.”

  “It will not always be enough.” Belinda kept her voice low for fear rage would break through otherwise. Robert breathed a laugh, nodding.

  “So I now see.” He crouched, gathering papers, then offered them up to her from the subordinate position, curious smile still shaping his mouth. “Answers will come, my Primrose. You have time. And you must return to Aulun now. Lorraine will need you, and better for you both to be far away from Lutetia when Sandalia dies. I’ll give you a week to be safely home before I act.”

  “I already have.” Belinda looked toward Sandalia’s desk, then took the parchment Robert had collected. “She’ll sip from a poisoned cup soon enough, and Lorraine will see the papers that forgive her for condemning a sister-queen to death.”

  Startled admiration wrinkled Robert’s forehead and he inclined his head after a moment, as much homage as she’d seen him pay any woman save a queen. “Then my journeys take me elsewhere, and you will learn to stand in my place at Lorraine’s side for a time, Primrose.” He straightened, then stepped forward to place a kiss on Belinda’s brow, looking down at her with amusement and pride. “You’ll do well,” he promised, and his voice lightened with mirth: “After all, your nurse taught you to be clever. Now go,” he murmured, and Belinda could not say if it was his will or her own that drew shadows around her, and propelled her toward escape.

  ROBERT, LORD DRAKE

  13 January 1588 Lutetia

  Only one thing remains to be done, and she is waiting for him. Composed, standing above the city in a sumptous tower, wearing one of the flowing new gowns in an off-shade of red, too much orange licking it to look well on most women. On her, it is magnificent, and even with her back to him, the gown’s shape makes her look younger than she is. Robert knows why she’s done it, and part of him even admires her for it, but as he lets himself in to her bower, it doesn’t move him. Not enough.

  She doesn’t turn away from the city view. Her hair, lush and dark and falling free, makes a cloak over her shoulders that he imagines wards off some of winter’s chill. If the circumstances were different, he might let himself bury his hands in it, inhale its scent, and be drowned in the pleasure of it all.

  Instead, from the door, he says, “Why?” It’s not important, but he’s surprised at how badly he would like to know, surprised at how deeply these fragile, clever humans can touch him.

  And she says, in a lighter voice than he’s heard her use before, “They offered me something you couldn’t.”

  “Your life.” Oh, how he has fallen. He shouldn’t have said even so much. Rue, or perhaps some closer cousin to distress, curves Robert’s mouth, though he won’t let himself look down. That would be too much; too weak, and that he cannot, or will not, allow himself.

  She turns then, amusement and wonder in her eyes, and he holds in a flinch, knowing far too well that he should not have spoken. It’s a long moment before she says, “That,” as if it doesn’t matter, and she’s right, for it doesn’t, and then lifts her left hand, where a heavy signet ring weights the third finger. “That, and this.”

  There’s no guilt in the courtesan’s gaze, and Robert is quiet a while as he takes in what the ring means to him, and what it means to Ana. “A friend to the crown of Gallin,” he finally says, slowly. “What of Aulun, Ana?”

  She shrugs, beautiful motion that ripples her hair and the light folds of her gown. “What of it? You’ve never really understood, Robert. I’m a courtesan, and a man came to me with an offer. Live like a duchess at Sandalia’s bidding, or die at his hands a whore. There’s no choice in that, my love. There’s no choice at all.”

  Fog creeps over Robert’s thoughts, making them thick and dull and slow. He cannot recall—and his memory is excellent—that Ana has ever used those words before. My love. Too much has changed too quickly, and for the first time he wonders if Dmitri was right, and he, Robert, is losing control.

  He is clearly losing control, for there’s the question of Javier, born to the power that Robert and Belinda and Dmitri all share, but born outside of Robert’s awareness, raised outside of certain schools of thought and indoctrination. Oh, yes, he is losing control, but that, that is a thing to be dealt with later. Tonight there is only one thing left to do, and she stands before him, waiting on his silence.

  Which he breaks with a confession that is unlike him: voice grating and low, he says, “I do not understand.”

  “Of course you do.” Ana has a deep voice, but tonight, still, it’s peculiarly light. Breathless, but not with ecstacy or laughter. More as though she dares not take too deep a breath, for fear it will cut her, and she does not want to spend her last hours in pain.

  Then, suddenly, he does understand. Fog clears, his mind sharpening, and unexpected regret turns to a knife’s edge within him. “Which is it, then? That you wished not to die a whore, or wished not to die at his hands?”

  “Oh,” Ana says, still lightly, “I wished neither, my love, but having had to choose, I chose not to die for him. It’s a small thing,” she says much more softly, and Robert suddenly realises they’re speaking Parnan; that they have been since he entered the room. There should be the sounds of the canals around them; there should be voices lifted in laughter and anger and life from the waterways. That’s how it should be, but it never will be, never again. “It’s a small thing,” Ana repeats, “but in the end, it seemed to be everything.”

  Robert’s heart contracts. It’s only a few steps across the room, long hard steps, but only a few, and he takes them swiftly, catching the striking beauty in his arms. She cries out, a quiet shocked sound, and he covers her mouth with his just briefly, before kneeling with her.

  Off-orange fabric settles around them slowly, darker now in places, wet and sticky. She’s silent, and he admires her for that even as she lifts fingertips to brush his lips, and then, strength spent, lets her hand fall again. He holds her, and at the last, breathes in the scent of her hair after all, and then rises, silently, to leave death behind.

  JAVIER, PRINCE OF GALLIN

  13 January 1588 Lutetia, the docks

  He has gone to some measure to disguise himself, his ginger hair darkened not with dye but with soot and ashes: it is a more temporary guise than he might like, but grey and black catch the light more naturally than pure black dye, and it only needs to work for a few hours. He has no especial skill at changing his weight with clever clothes, but he has packed both coin and food into a roll at his belt, thickening his slender hips. There is padding in the shoulders of his cloak, making him bulkier, and he can, at the least, take the street vowels he learned so well from Eliza and apply them to his voice. He remembers streaks of dirt on Beatrice’s face as he drew her from the oubliette, and has mimicked them on his own, shadows changing the line of his jaw. It is not a perfect disguise, but it is enough to let him walk the docks late at night without notice.

  There’s a ship already on the horizon, black shape against the stars as it sails against the wind. That wind carries the scent of the sea, the heavy unpleasantness of rotten fish and saltwater, and Javier is certain that there is no hint of perfume, carried from the horizon, on that breeze. He is certain, and yet. And yet.

  The tide has long since turned, and Beatrice has not come to him. Beatrice, he thinks; no: Belinda. It’s an irrational conclusion, that Beatrice would have come to him but Belinda Primrose would not, and it is the only one he can bear.

  Morning comes, and Beatrice does not. Head lowered, heart empty, Javier, prince of Gallin, climbs aboard a ship bound for Isidro in Essandia, there to seek his uncle’s counsel, and sails with the dawn.

  to be continued in

  The Pretender’s Crown

  There are a handful of people from the RMFW who deserve particular and specific acknowledgments: Jessica Wulf, who ran the Colorado Gold writing contest for ten years, and during whose tenure I first placed in, then won, that contest; Monica Poole,
who, at the beginning of my first Colorado Gold conference, gave me the most pointed and necessary critique my writing had ever received; Margie Lawson, whose incredible seminars helped me understand how to address Monica’s critiques; and Karen Duvall, whose friendship and enthusiasm I never would have known without the RMFW.

  It’s an aphorism among writers that booksellers are your best friends, as they’re the ones who give individual recommendations and get customers to actually buy our books. Duane Wilkins of the University Bookstore in Seattle, Washington, whether he knew it or not, went one step further and helped lay down the path that sold this book to the publisher. Now that’s a friend!

  Sarah Palmero and Stella Evans read and critiqued the first two hundred pages of The Queen’s Bastard, and their response gave me hope that I could write in this wholly different style. Ted, as usual, was serenely confident of my ability to do so; it’s good to have a husband who Believes.:) Not all of my usual suspects had time to finish the book, but Trent did, so my hat’s off to you, too.

  I do believe I may have made my agent, Jennifer Jackson, forget she was working and stay up too late reading this manuscript. That’s pretty much the best compliment ever, and then on top of that she had insightful comments toward revision. Thanks, Jenn.

  Finally, I’m still giddy over working with my editor, Betsy Mitchell. Betsy’s a rock star, and the opportunity to write for her is the dream of a lifetime.

  C. E. MURPHY lived for many years in Alaska before moving to Ireland. She is the author of the Walker Papers series and the Negotiator trilogy. Her hobbies include swimming, walking, traveling, and drawing.