Song of Blood and Stone

by L. Penelope

  She barely registered the dazzling hallways of the palace, the opulent room she was led to, the plush carpeting, detailed tapestries, or hand-carved furniture. She saw only the bed, canopied and enormous, and then the backs of her eyelids as she sank into the extravagant mattress.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  The Master of Jackals walked into the desert bearing only one skin of water.

  Are you not afraid? a boy cried, as Jackal disappeared into the sands.

  I will return or I will not, he said. My fear has no bearing on the outcome.

  —COLLECTED FOLKTALES

  A knock at the door brought Jasminda fully awake. She garbled a greeting and a tiny maid, not yet out of her teens, appeared with yards of fabric in her arms.

  “Have a nice rest, miss?” the girl said in a crisp city accent. Jasminda tried to prop herself on her elbows but gave up after a few moments and collapsed back down.

  “I’ve never slept better,” she said, mostly to the pillow.

  The girl chuckled, then flitted around the room, opening the curtains. Late-afternoon sunshine filtered in.

  “It’s time to bathe and change, miss. The Prince Regent has requested you for dinner.”

  She startled into wakefulness. Was she to be the main course? Neither the servants last night nor this girl had reacted to her appearance, but Jasminda remained on her guard. Why could the prince want to dine with her? Jack must have set it up, though after enduring the suspicious glares and harsh words of the soldiers, she could not imagine the prince would be more welcoming to her than they had been. However, it stood to reason that Jack would be in attendance as well; he was the reason she was staying there, after all. Her excitement to be near him again grew as she followed the maid into the gold-trimmed bathroom.

  Marble floors and walls greeted her. She gaped at the ivory-handled sinks with hot water flowing from the taps and marveled at the modern efficiency of a water closet with a seat that warmed her bottom. Papa had devised a plan for plumbing in the cabin, using some spell she suspected, but water had still needed to be heated on the stove.

  The bathtub proved to be a stumbling block. The little maid was adamant about bathing her. Jasminda protested that she could very well bathe herself—she wasn’t a child—but finally gave in to the girl’s steely determination.

  At least a bucketful of dirt disappeared down the drain. Her hair was washed and doused with a sweet-smelling concoction. Nadal—for if another woman was to see her naked, Jasminda insisted she should at least know her name—carefully combed Jasminda’s thick, tightly coiled locks free of snags in front of the fire, drying it as much as possible. Then she helped Jasminda into a complicated dress she wasn’t sure she’d be able to get out of again. At a gentle tap on the shoulder, Jasminda turned to face the full-length mirror in the dressing room.

  She gasped at the vision in front of her. Shiny golden fabric flowed around her body, hugging her curves and making her appear, for the first time, like she was worthy of staying in the palace. Her hair was even tamed into a cascade of thick waves.

  “You are a miracle worker,” she praised Nadal, who blushed.

  Nadal searched the pocket of her apron and pulled out a tiny oval mirror on a gold chain. “Where would you like it, miss?”

  Jasminda gaped. “Who is it for?” Mourning mirrors like the one Nadal held were worn after the death of a loved one. It was said those in the World After could peer through the mirrors and say their final good-byes to the living. After Jasminda’s mother died, she’d worn one around her neck for a year. When her father and brothers died, she hadn’t had the heart.

  “You haven’t heard?” Nadal’s hushed voice filled with wonder. “I’d thought since you arrived with … Miss, the Prince Regent has gone to the World After.”

  Jasminda took the mirror from the girl, gripping it lightly, and shook her head. “When did this happen? And how could he have invited me for dinner?”

  “They made the announcement this morning, but he could have been dead for days. They never proclaim the death of a royal until his heir has been sworn in. Fear of attack during the changeover or some such. I heard from a girl who works in the prince’s wing that she’d seen His Grace last week, Thirday. But she’s just a duster, and she didn’t see him that often.” The torrent of words seemed to take something out of the girl, and she dropped her chin, staring at the floor as if embarrassed to have spoken at all.

  “So the new prince invited me?” Her skin went clammy. The air in the room suddenly grew thin, as if Jasminda stood at the peak of a mountain. Jack had wanted to tell her something that night at the base, and again before they’d entered the palace.…

  She shook her head, unwilling to believe such a thing. He was a warrior, and perhaps a poet. He was almost certainly not a … She couldn’t even attach the word to him. An image of his face slightly twisted in one of his grim smiles filled her vision. He would have told her something so monumental.

  “Is this dinner special in some way? Is it in honor of the prince?”

  Nadal shook her head. “It is just dinner. The changeover is seamless. Outside, the people will mourn and most here will wear the mirrors for a week or so, but the business of the palace never stops, not even for death.”

  Jasminda sucked in a breath and fastened the gold chain around her neck. It fit snugly at the base of her throat. Not quite tight enough to choke her.

  “It’s time, miss,” Nadal said.

  Jasminda steeled her nerves and ignored the questions battling for dominance in her mind. They exited the rooms, and Nadal led her to the top of a grand staircase where a black-clad butler ushered her down and through a maze of hallways to a grand dining room. The grandeur of the palace was a blur, the empty feeling in her bones stealing most of her attention.

  “Jasminda ul-Sarifor.” A hush descended over the vast room as her name was announced by a silver-haired attendant. Every head swiveled in her direction, and she froze under the weight of expectation in the air. The sense of foreboding remained, but she tilted her chin a few notches higher and stepped farther into the hall. Yet another butler appeared at her elbow, a kind-faced man who, despite his Elsiran appearance, reminded her of Papa.

  “Miss Jasminda, this way, please,” he said, and led her deeper into the dining room. She followed his straight back, walking carefully in her delicate gold slippers. A four-piece string ensemble sat in the corner playing muted orchestral music. Three enormous U-shaped tables took up the majority of the room, with seating around the sides and a wide space for the servants to come and go in the middle. The end of the center table faced a slightly raised dais on which stood a smaller table. She surmised that must be where the Prince Regent sat. The space was magnificent—more carvings of the Lord and Lady adorned the tops of each window, and the ceiling was a grid of carved stone. Around each table sat several dozen people, all watching her. Conversations restarted, but the stares drilled into her as the butler led her to a setting only a half-dozen paces away from the dais.

  She was seated next to a posh woman in an elaborate, feathered hat, her snakelike figure poured into a silken black sheath dress. Directly across from Jasminda, an old man with a hearing cone pressed to one ear and thick spectacles leaned toward the man to his right, complaining loudly of the noise. Each wore a mourning mirror. The most ostentatious display was from an older gentleman farther down the table whose mirror was affixed to his eye patch.

  Jasminda fought the urge to squirm as the gazes of so many in the room raked over her, not bothering to hide their inquisitiveness. Her glass was filled by a passing waiter, and she grabbed at it, gulping greedily to soothe the sudden ache in her throat. The hall quieted again, and Jasminda turned to see what had captured everyone’s attention this time.

  A hidden door built into the wall behind the dais had opened. A group of guards in fancy black uniforms emerged, then flanked the door. Chairs groaned across the floor as everyone at the tables stood, almost as one. Jasminda raced to
catch up.

  The same man who had announced her stepped forward and cleared his throat. “Jaqros Edvard Alliaseen, High Commander of the Royal Army, First Duke of Cavill, and Prince Regent of Elsira.”

  The servant slid away, and Jasminda’s heart dissolved into a pool of liquid at her feet. Directly in front of her, in full regalia, stood Jack.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  The Master of Monkeys built a maze to dissuade those who would visit his home.

  He received no visitors.

  —COLLECTED FOLKTALES

  Jasminda had thought him beautiful in dirty fatigues and covered in bruises and blood, but in his royal uniform and freshly trimmed hair, he was nothing short of divine. The spark of hope she’d held inside, the one she’d foolishly allowed to grow into a tiny flame, flickered then snuffed itself out completely.

  Jack—Prince Jack—sat stiffly at the raised table mere steps away from her. His face was a rigid mask. He looked straight ahead, acknowledging no one.

  The head butler was speaking again, making announcements about the dinner, the soup, the ingredients, but Jasminda’s attention was wholly focused on the man in front of her.

  Gone was the ragged creature she’d discovered on the mountain and thought mad, the bruised and bloodied soldier who had sacrificed himself to protect a woman he didn’t know. A woman who could have been his enemy. When did he become this statue sitting before her, neither warrior nor poet, but prince?

  The coronation must have happened as soon as he’d arrived in the palace, but even more than the shock at his new position, she couldn’t believe how his whole nature seemed to have transformed. The light in his eyes that had withstood capture, gunshots, and beatings was now dimmed.

  The kindly butler approached and cleared his throat politely, placing his hands on her chair. She pulled her attention away from Jack to find that she was the only one still standing. As every eye in the room, except Jack’s, bored into her, she took her seat as gracefully as possible, smoothing her dress and thanking the butler in a trembling voice as he slid her chair in.

  Her hands shook. She flattened them on the table, imprinting the grooves of the wood onto her palms. Anger flared hot for a moment, then melted just as suddenly into despair. Neither emotion would help her. She was lost in an unforgiving sea. There was no way to escape the glares from around the room, and the one person who had given her comfort during these past days of upheaval was now a stranger to her.

  Tears stabbed the backs of her eyes. She used every trick she could to hold them back, resorting to digging her nails into the inside of her elbow until she could focus on the external pain a little more than the internal.

  The first course began, and chatter resumed around the room. The soup set before her was completely foreign. The stunning silverware of her place setting offered four spoons. Jasminda took a deep breath and clasped her hands together, darting glances around the table. The woman next to her had already chosen a spoon, and Jasminda couldn’t see from her position which one it had been.

  She didn’t want to make a misstep. Jack had invited her here, whatever his reasons were, whoever he was now, and she was determined to get through this meal with as much dignity as she could muster. She buried her shock and dismay, replacing it with determination. If she was the only grol these snooty city folk ever encountered, she wasn’t going to give them any more fuel for their fire of scorn.

  Jack filled her peripheral vision, but she refused to look at him again. He cleared his throat, then did so again a few moments later. A waiter hurried to tend to his water glass, but he brushed the man aside. The third time he cleared his throat she snapped her head toward him, narrowing her eyes and clenching her jaw against the swarm of emotion rising inside her.

  He slowly drew his hand down and selected the second spoon from the left, all the time staring down at his bowl. At her place setting, she chose the same spoon. The woman next to her tilted her bowl toward her body, then shoveled the spoon in the opposite direction before bringing it to her mouth.

  Jasminda glanced back at Jack as he slowly, slowly ate his soup in the same way. She copied his movements, happy to get something in her stomach. She had slept all day and hadn’t eaten anything since the day before. Dinner went on like this, course after course. She would be presented with some new obstacle—bread, salad, three entrées—and Jack would model the behavior for her.

  The Prince Regent—she vowed to stop being so familiar with him, even in her head—did not speak to anyone during dinner, and this appeared to be taken as normal by those present. It made her feel better that she would not have to talk to him. Just hearing his voice would make it that much harder to mend the gaping hole inside her.

  Blessedly, after what felt like hours, dinner finally ended. The last dessert dishes were cleared away by the staff, and the various characters at the table patted their bellies obnoxiously. Jasminda had never eaten so much food at one time in her life. Guiltily, she thought of the refugees. What rations had they been provided? Her meal sank like lead in her stomach.

  The company rose from the table and, just when she thought there would be a reprieve from the unrelenting pressure of the evening, the butlers ushered everyone into a huge adjoining sitting room. Small groups split off and clustered around settees or card tables, chatting amiably. Jack was nowhere to be seen. Jasminda stood alone next to the massive fireplace, enduring the uncomfortable heat.

  Glances sent her way ranged from mere curiosity to outright contempt. Her back remained straight, head high, but inside, she was wilting.

  A girl about her age approached the other end of the fireplace, setting a glass on the mantel. She stood for a moment peering at the flames before approaching Jasminda. Slender and beautiful, she wore a peach-and-gold dress that made her skin appear to glow. Amber eyes the color of her hair appraised Jasminda, not unkindly.

  “These things are positively awful.”

  Jasminda stared at her, unsure of the girl’s intentions.

  “I’m Lizvette.” She held out her hands.

  “Jasminda.” She placed her palms to Lizvette’s and pressed gently.

  “Welcome. I’m told you’re responsible for saving the life of our new prince.” Lizvette’s friendly smile seemed genuine, but Jasminda did not dare attempt a connection to Earthsong to determine her true intentions. She scanned the room to find they had attracted a great deal of attention.

  “I did save him once, or perhaps twice. But I cannot take credit for the last time.”

  “Our Jack, always getting into trouble.” Lizvette smiled, but her eyes were lakes of sadness.

  “You are … friends with the Prince Regent?”

  Her smile changed, though Jasminda could not determine precisely what was different about it. It was bleaker, perhaps. “I was betrothed to his brother.”

  “May he find serenity in the World After,” Jasminda responded, bowing her head. Lizvette repeated the blessing. Jasminda considered the young woman’s dress more closely. What she’d initially thought was shiny gold beading were actually dozens of mirrors embroidered into the material. A conspicuous show of grief that seemed at odds with Lizvette’s unassuming manner.

  There were not enough mirrors in the world to adequately represent everything Jasminda mourned. So many lives gone, so many failures. She’d thought for a moment as she lay beside Jack that perhaps … But now that was gone, too. Perhaps it was for the best. She did not want to imagine the look in his eyes when she failed him, too.

  An exceptionally tall man stalked toward them, his face contorted in indignation. She could read his intention quite clearly without Earthsong and took a step backward. Lizvette followed Jasminda’s gaze and turned to face him. He took hold of Lizvette’s elbow and leaned down to whisper loudly in her ear.

  “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “I’m greeting our visitor, Zavros. She is the Prince Regent’s guest. Jasminda, this is my cousin—”

  “It’s time to
go, Lizvette. You’re keeping your father waiting.”

  Lizvette smiled apologetically at Jasminda. “It was lovely meeting you. I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other again soon. May She bless your dreams.”

  Jasminda repeated the farewell and stood rigidly as Lizvette was towed away to a card table in the back. The blazing fire had grown unbearable, and the perimeter around her was a quarantine zone. What a surprise not to be the belle of the ball. With a final glance about the room, in which she refused to admit she was searching for Jack, she slipped out the door.

  Thick silence draped the empty hallway; each direction stretched on identically. She had absolutely no idea how to get back to her rooms. With no orientation or memory of the route she’d taken to get to the dining room, she took a few tentative steps to the left before a voice halted her progress.

  “Leaving?”

  She turned to find Jack standing behind her, regal and gorgeous. He was so close, but now untouchable. She hardened her features, not looking directly at him, not wanting to give away the storm of emotions fighting for dominance within her. Her fists clenched and opened as her body stiffened with tension. Traitorous tears welled; she blinked them back.

  “I’m not sure if I should bow or curtsy or what,” she said, gripping her hands in front of her to stop their movement.

  “I am sorry I didn’t tell you,” he said, voice pitched low. “I wanted to. I should have. It’s inexcusable, I just…”

  She longed to hear an excuse that would satisfy her and return things to the way they were. No words came. He shook his head and rubbed at his chest, just below his collarbone where his bullet wound had been.