If Auguste mismanaged the kingdom, he’d answer for that later.
He’d spoken with his grandfather, Jean Vignon Armel, after the coronation, who’d offered to provide honest counsel should he ever have need of it. Perhaps he’d welcome Jean to Courdeval when he returned from Magehold.
Pons had briefed them on the strained situation, with the Emaurrian army, the paladins, and their allies barely holding the line against the Immortal beasts. Especially after Rouzenac, a village near Costechelle, had been massacred by basilisks the night before the coronation. One hundred and thirty-one lives lost.
Captain Perrault would see to the hunt, joined by a light-elf unit from Vervewood.
As for Magehold, they’d presented Olivia’s idea and gotten agreement, with advice.
“We need to bring a gift,” he grunted under his breath.
“An extravagant, impressive gift,” Olivia added.
Because bowing and begging aid wouldn’t be enough as a sign of good faith. No, in order for the world to believe Emaurria blameless when the Divinity didn’t agree to send help, he had to come bearing a priceless tribute for the Grand Divinus.
The feasting had gone on long into the night, but after that dragon had flown over the abbey, he’d only been able to think about Rouzenac and securing the kingdom once and for all.
Once his travel was announced, he’d have to leave immediately, to give the Grand Divinus the least amount of time to prepare should her spies give her notice.
“What will you bring her?” Olivia asked while they approached the Treasury’s guards. They opened the doors and stood aside.
“Something valuable that means nothing to me.” He strode through each set of doors as they opened, until they reached the inner sanctum, where he had to use his key.
The guards opened those doors, too, and he and Olivia entered the glittering center of the Treasury.
All the Crown Jewels were here, and the most famed treasures in the kingdom. Olivia gasped, her fingers hovering over a display, perhaps the single most valuable collection in all the kingdom. A golden hair comb, enameled with a dragon at its center and jeweled with diamonds, chalcedony, lapis lazuli, and sapphires, lay amid a parure of five other pieces of jewelry—a tiara, a necklace, ring, brooch, and a pair of earrings, all set with the Faralle royal collection of sapphires, diamonds, and pearls. The most perfect in existence.
A betrothal gift fit for a queen.
He approached and stood next to Olivia, reaching out to brush the fine enamel of the comb. “The Farallan parure.”
“I-It’s beautiful,” she whispered. “I’ve read that the kings of old would adorn their queens in jewels, to show the kingdom all was well, that the monarchy was healthy. And so was the kingdom.”
Next to the parure lay a small blade, a rapier.
“The Queen’s Blade,” Olivia said. “King Tristan Armand Marcel Faralle commissioned it for his queen.”
The subtle sage shimmer was arcanir. While the parure signaled a healthy monarchy—flush with coin—the Queen’s Blade symbolized something deeper. A fighter. A warrior queen. A partner who protected the kingdom along with her king. He extended an arm towards it, hovering over the ornate hilt.
“This,” he said.
Olivia cocked her head. “You want to give the Grand Divinus a sword?”
“With it, she can either help us fight the Immortals,” he said, “or sever the bond between our kingdom and the Divinity.” The symbolism wouldn’t be lost on a calculating person like the Grand Divinus.
“Jon, are you sure this is what you—”
“We have a ship to catch.” He grabbed the sword and handed it to Olivia. “And would you have Tor summoned here?”
This blade would serve as his gesture of good faith in dealing with the Grand Divinus. He would stand by her word one way or another—there was no dishonor—but she was too committed to turn back now. She’d already withheld her troops when Courdeval had been under siege. She’d already perhaps participated in the regicide. And she’d refused to help against the Immortals.
The Grand Divinus couldn’t call his bluff. She wouldn’t.
Olivia accepted the sword hesitantly. “Tor? You’re finally going to speak to him?”
It might be his last chance to. “Yes. Have the Guard escort him here.”
She knitted her eyebrows together as she bowed and left, but things weren’t as they used to be; Tor had made his move, chosen his side, and if he ever wanted to be trusted again, he would have to prove his loyalty.
Nearby, his crown from the coronation sat on display, gold inlaid with sapphires and engraved with dragons. The Faralles had claimed to be descended from an ancient line of dragon hunters, and although he might have doubted that a few months ago, it now seemed entirely possible.
“The Lord Constable,” Raoul announced.
“Leave us,” Jon replied, without turning to look at Tor.
“Majesty,” Raoul acknowledged, with two sets of departing footsteps. When the door shut, the silence settled.
Tor had grown a beard for the past month, something he hadn’t done in all his years as a paladin of the Order. The dark circles under his eyes had remained, and deep lines in his face had joined them. He’d aged beyond his forty-four years. Treason could do that to a man. But he still dressed well, still kept up appearances, despite being watched by the Royal Guard at all times.
“I’m not sure how much you’ve—”
“Do you accuse Olivia of lying?” Jon faced him and leaned against the display.
Tor took a deep breath and clasped his hands behind his back.
No matter his reasons, Tor had kept Faolan’s treason secret for months, had known of his intention to commit further crimes, and yet had said nothing. All in the name of playing both sides.
That stung, but it—it wasn’t what grated the most.
Tor shook his head. “I thought—”
“You thought you could single-handedly prevent another regicide, while allowing your brother to evade justice for murdering my entire family,” Jon said coldly.
“And you believe my word alone is enough to condemn him?” Tor asked, taking a step closer. “That if he knew I’d turned on him, he wouldn’t have you killed immediately?”
Jon huffed. “So being complicit to treason, you were saving my life?”
“That is exactly what I was doing. Delaying him. Keeping you alive. Keeping my family alive. Giving myself room to think, to continue dissuading him—”
Jon stomped forward. “It wasn’t your decision.”
Tor bowed his head, resting his hands on his hips.
“You think I would have let your entire family be executed?” Did Tor know him at all?
“You wouldn’t have had a choice. Punishment of treason must be swift, severe, and absolute, or—”
Jon held up a hand. “I spent the last several months believing I had no choice. That everything I did had to be done.” A lie that had paved the path to his own destruction. “No, it was expected to be done. But I had a choice. There’s always a choice.”
He’d made mistakes—terrible mistakes—believing he’d been inadequate to lead the kingdom, and he’d sacrificed all of his ideals to become a cloud of expectations. But a man could only ever be a man, and he could only ever be himself. He’d spent his life putting fists to faces and bending wrong to right as a paladin, and that would be his leadership—the only kind he could ever provide.
Frowning, Tor blinked. “But you would have been perceived as weak if you didn’t—”
“Is mercy weak?” Jon asked. “You don’t think it’s easier to just erase what makes you hurt, to remove it from your sight and pretend it doesn’t exist?” He rested a palm on his chest for a moment. “It takes strength to face what hurts, to be honest with yourself, to live unfettered by expectation.”
Tor met his gaze, his face going slack. “That is why I am still here.” He said it more like a question.
“Arresting yo
u and executing Faolan and everyone even remotely involved would be fear,” Jon said. But he and Tor had built a bond over a decade and more, and killing him was unthinkable.
Faolan would pay for his crimes. They had the courier in custody and were assembling all the correspondence he’d sent to Tor, along with establishing funding connections. Faolan would ultimately be executed. He’d committed atrocities—willfully—too vile and malicious to forgive.
Tor had made a stupid decision out of a desire to save lives, and a hasty arrest would only alert Faolan to their knowledge. More than that, Tor hadn’t hurt anyone. He hadn’t even intended to hurt anyone. He had wrongs to right, but none of them would be solved by his death. His atonement, and his continued life, could do great good.
And Tor hadn’t been entirely wrong to try to make peace between the Faralles and the Marcels. The Marcels had been a dynasty of kings before his own, and many looked to them for protection and wisdom when conditions turned dire. Without even revealing his identity, Faolan had rent the kingdom with the regicide and the siege, and if he’d come forth, there would have been a civil war, no question.
Jon lowered his gaze. When he appointed a successor, whether Faolan was alive or dead, would the kingdom accept anyone other than a Faralle or a Marcel? There were no choices among the Faralles—all had conflicts of interest or were too remote to be suitable.
For the sake of his people, could he name a Marcel as his successor? Not Faolan—a man given over to violence and ambition—but… his son? Brennan?
Perhaps the hope for his kingdom could still be found in Rielle as its queen and her heirs. If Terra chose to allow the irony.
“Can you forgive me?” Tor asked.
“I already have,” he replied solemnly. The succession was a matter for another time. “But things aren’t what they were.” They might never again be. “Prove your loyalty. While I’m abroad, develop a plan to take down Faolan and bring him to justice, just as we would’ve done as paladins.”
Chapter 12
Samara smoothed her fingers over the fine brushed cotton of her thiyawb as she rode through the predawn streets of Gazgan. Zahib kept a watchful eye, his hand on his blade’s hilt, as they made their way to the runist, who would remove her slave brand and make her untraceable forever.
She now wore the thiyawb of a freewoman. No more of the neutral-toned two-piece house-slave robes. Zahib had presented her with a thiyawb and halla dyed an impressive indigo, worn by some shafi and nawi, and suitable for the legitimized daughter of a Hazael.
The past several days journeying across the desert had given her freedom a tactile quality. Camel reins in her hands, sand in which she could bed down wherever she chose, oases with water that was hers to drink if she wanted, ingredients she could gather along the way. The other travelers in the caravan had spoken to her sometimes, asked her about her family and her destination.
Family. Zahib wasn’t family, no matter that his blood ran through her veins. A true father raised his daughter, loved her, taught her, spent time with her. Zahib had merely been saddled with her, an unexpected result from an affair with a slave. Sand in his boots. Something he’d had to bear but certainly hadn’t wished for, nor loved. Just used, as his slave. She wouldn’t fool herself into believing he’d changed—he’d simply found a new use for her as his heir.
Perhaps he had been an idealist, and she a means to an end. A way to keep his other heirs from killing one another or killing him to restore the old ways. She was sand he needed to throw in their faces and spite them.
No, Zahib was Zahib, and no matter that he no longer owned her, she would always know him as Zahib to remember that he had owned her, for all the fifteen years of her life.
If she had any family, it had been the other slaves. She’d only gotten to hear the words freeing them before Zahib had swept her away. Shenaz, who was her age, talked faster than a falcon could fly—at least when it came to boys, and styled the dancers’ hair. Naima, whose loving arms always held an embrace for those who needed it, who smiled all the way to her soft, loving eyes as she slipped leftover werqa to the hungry. Even Thahab, for the months she’d spent in the House, who’d chatted with her about spells and spoken High Nad’i like a noble. Her need to protect her baby hadn’t killed Zahib, but it had killed his grandfather. And it had set her free—and hopefully, somewhere far from Xir, she had found the father of her child and planned for a joyous birth in a few months.
And as for her destination? She ducked beneath a fabric canopy as they neared the runist’s shop.
A girl whose life belonged to a master hadn’t the reason to dream of destinations. Or goals. What did she want to do with her life?
Umi had taught her about medicines before she’d disappeared, enough to help others, but was that what she wanted to do? Follow in the footsteps of her mother?
And even if she wanted to be an apothecary, did she want to go to a university? Or maybe become an apprentice? Or open her own shop? Travel, maybe, and sell whatever medicines she crafted as she journeyed—see all the places she’d never even dreamed of, where people spoke in foreign tongues and wore foreign garb and lived such vastly different lives than—
“We’re here.” Zahib dismounted from his camel and handed the reins to a boy, then approached her and offered her his hand.
Ignoring him, she climbed off on her own, sliding along the camel’s side to land heavily upon the ground. The camel brayed, and she fell back, hoping to avoid a bite.
Zahib remained still, expressionless, as she gathered her composure, and then he jerked his head toward the runist’s door. Beneath his watchful gaze, she entered.
Inside was pleasant enough, with sitting rugs and tapestries, but only two people were inside. A young man huddled in a corner, his black hair a matted mess and his clothes in tatters, hastily eating flatbread and cheese, and an old woman sitting on a chair, half-asleep.
It took merely a moment of Zahib’s facade of charm with the old woman, and a couple of gold araqs, before a large man—who loomed even over Zahib—emerged, a row of gold hoops adorning his ears, shining like his clean-shaven head. He had the enormous arms of a blacksmith, and wore only the vest and baggy trousers of the Hongo hill tribes. His eyes were the darkest brown and pleasant, soft, kind.
“Msizi?” Zahib asked, spine ramrod straight as he regarded the man. So he didn’t know him, and wasn’t even remotely at ease.
Those darkest-brown eyes hardened as Msizi crossed his massive blacksmith arms. “Your kind isn’t welcome here, Hazael. I do not brand.”
Zahib, with the slightest cordial smile, glanced in her direction. “It is not my kind that requires your services, but she. Remove her brand. She is free.”
Msizi’s hard gaze slid to her, and as she shrank back, it softened. He relaxed his arms to his sides. “Do not fear me, young one. To you, I am ever a helping hand.”
He was a stranger to her, but she’d seen those soft eyes before. Naima’s eyes. Kind eyes. Loving eyes.
He stood aside from the doorway, parted its blue strung beads, and nodded toward it. “After you.”
A runist that doesn’t brand. He didn’t help masters; he helped slaves seeking their freedom.
Carefully, she stepped toward the door and through, followed by Msizi.
The small room, full of shelves lined with jars ringing a narrow bed covered with a crisp, freshly washed sheet and a small table next to it, was inviting and almost familiar. Msizi handed her a warm cup filled with liquid, whose spice she could already smell.
“For the pain,” he said.
The tart sweetness of cherry and the spicy heat of chili already wafted from its surface; he wasn’t lying. She nodded and took a sip. Spice and heat burst on her tongue. “Cherry, chili,” she began, “white willow bark… birch leaf, and…”
“Devil’s claw extract,” he supplied, with a warm smile.
Ah, yes. The hooked desert fruit. She’d never tasted it herself, but now she’d remember.
/> “You know your herbs,” he said brightly, shuffling about the room. He gathered a long needle, gauze, and other supplies.
“I’m an apothecary,” she said, finishing the pain-relieving tea. “And my mother was an apothecary. I’ve been learning all my life.”
“There are many who could use your help.” He gestured toward the bed, and she removed her thiyawb and halla, handed them and the empty cup to him, and pulled her chemise up above the hips of her trousers before lying face-down on the bed.
He pulled up the chemise to expose her lower back, then gently brushed an herbal oil over her brand. It was hot at first, then cooled, and finally numbed her skin there.
A sharp prick pierced her flesh, and she winced, but the sensation was dulled. He chanted an incantation, removed the needle, then repeated the process.
“My father was a runist,” he said to her between repetitions of the incantation. “So was his father, and his, in a long line of my family.”
“They taught you?” she asked quietly, flinching. It was a painstakingly slow process—piercing, incantation, removal, and repetition. But not as unpleasant as branding often was. New slaves did not receive a pain-relieving tea or herbal balm.
“They did,” he replied. “My tribe had done runes for wealthy patrons, and I grew up studying my brothers’ work, but when I was a little older, my father took me with him as an apprentice, to the Harifan slave souk.”
The Harifan slave souk collected hundreds or thousands of slaves, selling them individually daily, and auctioning them off monthly. Men, women, and children from all around the world were sold there.
“I tried to please my father, but I didn’t have his… distance. One day, he ordered me to brand a little child, perhaps four years old, and I did it.”
Samara’s vision blurred. Such young children rarely survived the transport, let alone the slave souk, but if they did, they were widely sought-after, some as playmates to House children, if they were fortunate. Most were not.
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