by L. Penelope
Lying. Or rather, hedging. Confident that she was doing right but still scared. It was confusing. But Jasminda gathered her file had been marked somehow.
“When is the Director expected to return?” she asked through clenched teeth.
“Oh, I don’t know. It may be some time.” Another lie.
“Just enough time for my window to appeal to close? Today is my last day.”
The woman blinked and slammed the file closed. “I can’t help you.”
Almost the truth. She wouldn’t help, that was clear. Jasminda released Earthsong and fought the urge to sag with relief. She turned away, then back again, an idea forming in her mind. The clerk was pale, her eyes wide and frightened.
“I don’t suppose the Director knows a man named Marvus Zinadeel, does he?”
The woman swallowed nervously. “Y-yes. They have lunch together once a month.” She narrowed her eyes. “Why?”
Jasminda snorted and turned on her heel. She strode through the government building, her steps echoing on the marble floors. At the town car, she was ready to wrench open the door in anger, but the driver beat her to it.
“Do you know a merchant named Zinadeel?” she asked him.
He seemed surprised, but nodded. “Yes, miss. He owns several department stores in midtown.”
“Which is the biggest?”
Fifteen minutes later, she stepped in front of Olivesse’s, a three-story monstrosity in the middle of the bustling merchant district. Mannequins wearing the latest fashions filled the windows. An irrational burst of pride zinged through her to see that the very dress she wore was currently displayed, only in sea-foam green.
It reminded her that she did have allies. At least one, and he was a fairly important one. But she could do this on her own. She was not a leech and would not earn any of the gossip sure to follow in her wake. Before she could second-guess herself, she went inside.
In all her life, she’d never seen so many clothes in one place. She’d thought the wardrobe Nadal had procured for her was fine, but this was unimaginable.
She fought to hide her amazement as she walked down the center aisle, passing racks upon racks of clothing. Her fingers itched to reach out and explore the fabrics. Silk and chiffon, lace and linen. This was the true wealth of her family. This was what Mama had walked away from to live in their little valley, which suddenly seemed like it was on the other side of the world, not just the country.
A sprightly saleswoman approached, her forehead lined with uncertainty. “Is there something I can help you with?”
“Where is the owner’s office?” Jasminda asked.
With a bewildered look, the woman pointed her to the back of the store. In moments, Jasminda stood in front of Marvus Zinadeel’s secretary, who appeared just as flummoxed to see her as everyone else she’d encountered this morning.
“He doesn’t know I’m coming, so I’m certain he hasn’t given you any excuses as to why he can’t see me,” Jasminda said. “I’ll be going in now.”
“But, but you can’t—” The secretary stood, however, Jasminda towered over the diminutive woman, glaring at her fiercely. She flinched, allowing Jasminda to smoothly step around her and open the great mahogany door to her grandfather’s office.
The interior was all dark wood, somber, heavy furniture, thick hand-woven rugs, and bulky brocades. The intercom crackled to life as the secretary’s warbled voice announced the arrival of an unwelcome visitor.
Jasminda stopped short just inside the door, her confident forward motion arrested by the sight of the man before her.
He stood, cutting an imposing figure in his tailored suit. His hair had gone white at the temples but retained its reddish-blond color on top. He was handsome in a distinguished, distant way. Tall and lean and more intimidating than she’d imagined.
“Grandfather?” she said, her bravado falling away under the intense scrutiny of his golden eyes.
“Jasminda.” His face was inscrutable. He leaned against the side of his highly polished desk and crossed his arms, looking her up and down. Finding her lacking.
She took a few more steps but stopped, not wanting to stand too close to him. She didn’t bother to greet him properly, and he made no move to do so with her. With effort, she steeled her spine. “I went to the Taxation Bureau to lodge my appeal in person this morning, but it seems I won’t be allowed to.”
His expression didn’t change, but something in his eyes flashed.
“I believe you and the Director are quite chummy. Perhaps you have some insight as to why he will not be able to hear my appeal.”
Zinadeel’s eyes burned into her. “Can’t say that I do. Best take it up with them if you have some complaint.”
This would be a test of wills, then. “And what of this document you want me to sign?” She produced the folded and crumpled paper from her pocket. It had gotten soaked in the rain and then dried out and was overall a bit worse for the wear.
Zinadeel tracked the paper with his gaze. “What is there to discuss? It is a generous offer. You should be speaking with my solicitors at any rate. They handle these types of affairs.”
“But I wanted to talk to you in person, Grandfather. I have questions.” Gathering her strength, she strode forward and sat in front of him, perching gently on the very edge of one of the two chairs facing his desk. A deep furrow appeared in his forehead, but he walked behind his desk and sat.
“Well?” His voice was suspicious. Unyielding.
“I know that Papa contacted you after Mama’s death.” She wasn’t sure if she imagined the wince he gave. This was the man who had cut Mama off two decades earlier without a word—was it possible he felt some regret?
“And I myself wrote to you on numerous occasions over the past two years. Yet you did not see fit to respond until now. The first time I hear from you is mere months after the first time I heard from the Taxation Bureau. Twenty years without a tax bill, can you imagine?”
She forced herself to smile. “And then, out of the blue, your generous offer arrives, which would provide enough to pay this sudden debt. I am very curious why that is. Can you enlighten me?” She sat primly, hands clasped on her knee.
His frown deepened. “Is it not obvious why? I am a respected man. I am running for city Alderman in the spring. My daughter Eminette’s poor decisions reflect back on me, on all of us. I am doing my duty as head of this family by trying to mitigate the unsuitability of her choices.”
Jasminda held her face very still. “So you want me to accept hush money to never reveal your daughter’s transgressions?” She shook her head. “You cannot erase my mother from this world. She loved my father, and I am the result of that. It happened, and your money cannot destroy it.”
Zinadeel snorted. “Money is a great motivator. It makes people forget. Or remember, depending on which is convenient.” He peered down at her, sizing her up. “What do you really want?”
“I want to know the true reason you offered me this deal.”
“I’ve told you.” He waved his hand impatiently.
She shook her head, watching his brow descend.
“And where do you expect to live once your little farm is sold at auction tomorrow, hmm? What will you do? How will you eat?” He gave her a self-satisfied smirk. “If forty thousand isn’t enough, how about fifty? Is your sense of nostalgia worth fifty thousand pieces? Eminette is dead, she can have no opinion on the matter.”
Red stole across her vision. She gripped the arms of the seat to keep her limbs still. “My parentage isn’t for sale.”
“Everything is for sale. It’s just a matter of negotiating the proper price. Your home and your life for mine. It is a fair exchange, I should think.” His shrewd gaze seemed to cut right through her. “Or have you some other option?”
She thought of Jack. He had offered to pay off her debts, and then what? Would that make her the whore the soldiers whispered of? She shivered at the thought. That was nearly as bad as renouncing her moth
er and taking this man’s money. But she was well and truly stuck.
She stood. “I will not make this easy for you,” she said through gritted teeth.
Her grandfather chuckled maddeningly as she stalked out of the office, past the wide-eyed secretary. The timbre of his amusement echoed in her ears as she left the store without another look at the fine clothing or beautiful things.
Back at the town car, the driver rushed to open the door for her.
“Back to the palace, please.”
She didn’t look back as they pulled away.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
A wise man asked the Mistress of Eagles, How can I hear the voice of the Divine?
All voices are the Divine, she answered.
But what of those speaking evil?
Eagle replied, Evil is heard with the heart and not with the ears.
—COLLECTED FOLKTALES
Jasminda jumped at the knock on the door. She scrubbed away the stubborn tears that had escaped, despite her best efforts, and approached.
“Who’s there?”
“Miss Jasminda, it’s Usher.”
She relaxed and opened the door, glad to see him. His gray head and kind face were welcome sights. That morning he had led her through the palace to the vehicle depot to meet her driver. Usher held Jack’s trust, and hers by proxy.
“The prince requests your presence.”
Surprised at the summons, she followed. Usher led her through the bowels of the palace and down many steep staircases, each older than the last. Here, the original stone walls and floors had not been plastered over or carpeted. Kerosene lamps instead of electric shone dimly, lending an acrid tinge to the cool air, though to Jasminda’s mind, torches would not have been out of place.
“This is the oldest part of the palace, Miss Jasminda. It is used exclusively by the Prince Regent.”
Something odd brushed against her senses. The energy of this place was overwhelming. The hallway in which they stood ended with a door. Usher pushed it open with some difficulty and motioned her through. Giving him a quizzical look, she stepped cautiously, then gave a yelp when her feet slid down.
The floor was like a bowl, the inside of the room a white sphere with the door hanging in the middle. Candles glowed eerily from little alcoves notched into curved walls made of no material she could fathom. Everything was smooth and white, but the shadows from the candles flickered gloomily.
Jack knelt on one knee at the bottom of the bowl, underneath a long white capsule floating in midair. The smooth, seamless surface of the capsule was made of the same strange material as the walls. The object resembled an elongated egg, about six feet in length. It hovered courtesy of an ancient, intensely powerful spell that tingled against the edges of her senses like static electricity.
Jack rose, facing her as she found her footing and gingerly stepped down the concave floor. Exhaustion wearied his features, but his expression brightened at the sight of her. She slid into his arms, and he held her so tightly she could scarcely breathe. But she did not complain.
“Are we where I think we are?”
Jack lifted his head, looking up at the floating capsule. “The resting place of the Queen Who Sleeps.”
She stared in awe. “But this chamber is sacred. Can I be here?”
“Not even the Sisterhood may come down here—only the Prince Regent and those closest to him.” He took her hand and pulled her directly underneath the Queen’s encased form, then led her to kneel with him. “We come to seek Her counsel and wisdom, to pray for the knowledge and strength to lead in Her stead.”
She wrenched her gaze from the smooth surface of the Queen’s tomb. Not a tomb, for She slept only, and it was promised that She would awaken.
“Being here, does it spark any insights into the visions?” Jack asked.
She stood and walked the length of the Queen’s encasement, staring up at it. A crushing sense of defeat teetered at the edge of her awareness. She shook her head. “This place is full of power, but I don’t know. It’s not like anything I’ve seen.”
Shame for her weakness and the little progress she was making with the caldera filled her. She relayed what she’d seen to Jack—Eero’s trial, his being taken away for treatment. “I wish I could go faster. I’m sorry.” She sank down to the ground, and Jack came to sit next to her.
“I know you’re doing your best. I’m not trying to pressure you, just help.” He grasped her hand, but the worried look never left his face.
She ran her fingers through his somewhat disheveled hair. “Something’s wrong. Something new.”
His shoulders sagged. He told her of the letter from the True Father and the terrible demands.
Tears once again stung her eyes at the thought of all it had taken for the refugees to make it to Elsira in the first place. Only to be sent back … It was unthinkable, but she knew too well how little value a Lagrimari life held here.
“What will happen?”
“I have three days to ensure the Council doesn’t make a grave mistake.”
Jasminda shuddered. If only she could make more progress. She would try again now if her Song weren’t still depleted from this morning’s vision and her trip downtown.
Nothing was going right. The auction was tomorrow, and she was no closer to saving her farm or awakening the Queen. Jack was lost in his duties. She was glad he hadn’t asked about her visit to the Taxation Bureau. She didn’t want him to offer his aid again.
Relying on him and his princely connections would be lovely. But where would she turn when this dream dissolved back into reality? Even now he was not really hers, and if she grew to depend on his care, on his help, then she risked so much more when it was over. More than she could bear.
Lost in thought, Jack’s expression was dark.
“They will come around,” she said, leaning against him. “They have to.”
Jack snorted. “Those old men are so stubborn and callous, and they have little respect for me.” He sighed. “What if I can’t save the refugees?”
Jasminda didn’t know what to say. Odd that they both felt so powerless, she the only one for whom a magical object worked and he the prince of the land. But they battled forces much more powerful than themselves. She could only hope those forces wouldn’t win.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
What can I do to gain favor? asked the tax collector to the Master of Jackals.
Marry well.
—COLLECTED FOLKTALES
The newspaper cartoon displayed a baby with a shotgun in one hand and a scepter in the other, a crown of bullets sitting askew on his head. On one side, grotesque caricatures of Lagrimari refugees gobbled food from huge bowls, while on the other, waifish Elsiran farmers split a single loaf of bread.
An editorial on the same page detailed Prince Jaqros’s plan to starve his own people in favor of the refugees. It dredged up the swirling chaos surrounding his mother’s emigration after his father’s death—she had renounced her citizenship before fleeing the country. Those had been dark days.
Of course the reporters did not mention his father’s mistreatment—that was a secret no one knew. The damage the former Prince Regent had caused with words and occasionally with fists. How Jack hadn’t been able to protect either of them. How the light had fled his mother’s eyes until she’d had to leave. Jack’s fingers dug into his palms at the memory.
Today’s newspaper article reported “no confidence that the offspring of a woman who many consider a traitor to her country could effectively rule.” His recent reckless undercover mission and subsequent disappearance were laid out. He was young and headstrong and prone to rash behavior.
Jack slammed the paper shut and tossed it to the ground. Usher stooped to pick it up, smoothing the folds and placing it neatly on the bureau.
“What happens if I abdicate?” he asked, seriously considering the idea.
Usher sat next to Jack in the armchair in front of the fireplace, a finger to his lips in thoug
ht. “Your second cousin Frederiq is a lovely boy, but a twelve-year-old Prince Regent would fare little better in the press, I’m afraid.”
Jack groaned. “The Council would run that child ragged and rule unchecked. Sovereign only knows what manner of damage they’d cause if left entirely to their own devices.” He rose and leaned against the mantelpiece. “I don’t know what to—”
His secretary knocked on the door then stuck her head in when he replied.
“Minister Nirall for you, Your Grace.”
Jack sighed. “Show him in, Netta. Thank you.”
Nirall entered, his normally jovial face grim. Jack forced a warm greeting and bid him to sit.
“You’ve seen today’s paper, Your Grace?”
“Unfortunately.”
“What passes for journalism these days is offensive,” Nirall said with a sniff. He shook his graying head. “However, this refugee business has the people on edge.”
“And they blame me? For failing to turn away these threadbare women and children? Is that what the people are saying?”
“Your Grace, the people simply want to know that their Prince Regent and their Council hear their voices and have their best interests at heart. They’re afraid helping the refugees is taking away vital resources from our own people.”
“And the rest of the Council has concern for their interests? Giving in to the True Father’s demands is madness.” Jack shook his head. “If we could only get more of them to see reason…”
Jack closed his eyes, weary of the task in front of him. Whenever he dropped his lids he saw Jasminda’s face smiling back at him, and the thought soothed him. The cares of the world disappeared in her arms; how he longed for nightfall and the comfort of her touch.
“What do you think Alariq would have done?” he asked.
Nirall exhaled slowly. “He would have examined all sides of the issue very carefully. Measured them twice to cut once.”
A hint of a smile cracked Jack’s bleak face. “My brother would have measured them no less than four times. That’s why he was a good prince.”