by L. Penelope
“Quite a shame what happened to that little grol boy.”
Jack’s jaw clenched at the epithet.
“Well, with so many of them there, something like that was bound to happen,” a wine importer named Pindeet said.
“I don’t know,” said Dursall. “I don’t suppose a grol is any more likely to commit violence than, say, an Udlander. If they were brought up in a proper environment, I’d think you could almost entirely erase their more barbaric tendencies.” The gathered men nodded in agreement. “Speaking of which, what’s this I hear of a Lagrimari woman staying in the palace?”
Jack chose his words very carefully. “She is Elsiran. Born of a settler and a woman of the Sisterhood.”
“Quite unusual,” Dursall said. “But it proves my point. Perhaps it is in large part due to the gift of half her parentage, but from all accounts she is well spoken and well groomed. I daresay almost fit for polite society. How do you find her, Your Grace?”
Eight pairs of eyes were trained on him. He tasted each word on his tongue before allowing it to leave his mouth. “In truth, I don’t know her that well. In the handful of times in which I’ve made her acquaintance, I’ve found her to be quite … acceptable.” He swallowed.
The conversation continued for a few minutes but was impossible for him to follow. He regretted the words as soon as they’d left his mouth, but what was he to say? To mention that he was in a constant state of longing for her touch, that a day without seeing her was incomplete, that she was the most fearless and impressive woman he had ever encountered would have been more than these old hogs needed to know.
He was about to slip out to the terrace when an elderly woman dripping in diamonds, the wife of a former Council member, stopped him to attempt to wrangle an invitation for her very eligible granddaughter to the next state dinner. Jack looked longingly at the doors to freedom before plastering on a smile.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Eagle warned Horse, Tread with caution and tranquility; the ground ahead is full of brambles.
Horse shook off the warning saying, Watching your feet is a sure way to bump your head.
—COLLECTED FOLKTALES
The pounding of rain against the window left Jasminda anxious and on edge. The storm had caught up with her. Each drop of water held untapped menace and eroded whatever sense of calm she’d held since that night at the Eastern Base.
Her emotions were raw, not just from the arrival of the True Father’s storm, but from her sleepless night.
The evening before, she’d watched the ball from the shadows of the terrace. She’d merely wanted to glimpse the festivities and to see Jack in his finery once again. Hiding amidst the billowing folds of the curtains, she’d felt like a ghost, as though her existence was mere myth.
Her heart had leapt when Jack had come so near, almost close enough to touch. But she’d also been close enough to overhear what he said to those aristocrats, how he’d called her “acceptable.” The words echoed in her head, seizing her heart in an icy grip. She knew she wasn’t being fair, she understood his evasion, but nothing about this situation was fair, nothing about her life had ever been.
He hadn’t come to her that night, either. Usher had brought her a note with Jack’s apologies. Urgent matters of state kept him away.
Now she sat in the palace’s Blue Library, books spread around her, trying to concentrate. She forced herself to focus on the book in her lap—Elsiran history. Wanting to start at the beginning, she’d pulled down dozens from the shelves, growing more and more uneasy with each one she read. The history before the war was treated like a fairy tale or a parable. Tales of the Founders were little more than children’s stories written for adults. There were no dates, no names or locations—just stories of wonder and generosity from the esteemed Founders and whimsical folktales about their offspring.
Even the fates of the Lord and Lady were never mentioned, only that leadership eventually passed to one of their descendants, the Queen Who Sleeps, who continued their wonderful work. Then, inevitably, each book would contain a short and very vague passage on her betrayal by the True Father and the spell he cast that placed her into an endless sleep. A sleep that could only be broken if he were sent to the World After. His true identity or where he came from were never touched upon. Nor were his motives.
It was as if history and myth had intertwined somehow, and vital facts had been lost or obscured. And now she was beginning to understand the truth through her visions. Nothing in the recorded histories could disprove what the caldera showed. And the emotions she felt when she was Oola, the Queen, were all too real. Every sorrow, every bit of angst and guilt and fear became hers, and lasted long after she came back to herself.
The time between the visions was shortening as well. This morning she’d seen a brief vision of Yllis asking Oola to marry him. It was not the first time he’d asked, and she again denied him. Her emotions had been unstable—finding her brother and restoring peace to their land had been all she could think about—but her Song sensed Yllis’s frustration and pain. The vision ended abruptly, almost in the middle of a thought, and Jasminda hoped she would be strong enough to try the caldera again later that night.
She looked up from her spot on the floor and stifled a gasp to find Lizvette standing before her, willowy and elegant in a cream-colored gown.
“I didn’t mean to shock you. Please forgive me,” Lizvette said.
“No, I’m sorry. You haven’t been standing there long, have you?”
“No.” The generous way she smiled made Jasminda think that wasn’t precisely the case.
Jasminda rose and tiptoed her way out of the prison of books she’d created, motioning to a set of chairs at one of the study tables. Lizvette perched in her seat, back straight, hands folded neatly in her lap. Jasminda copied her pose, but her body didn’t take to it naturally.
Lizvette looked around. “I never come in here. It’s so odd that I’ve lived in the palace all my life and rarely take advantage of its resources.”
Jasminda shrugged. “It’s easy to take things for granted. Hard to believe that what seems permanent could ever be taken away.” She sank in her seat like a deflating balloon.
“You have had a great many losses?” Lizvette’s body was rigid, but her voice was kind.
“I’ve lost everything. Everything I’ve ever had.” Jasminda snapped her back straight again and refused to give in to the melancholy. “But I’m sure you don’t want to hear about my sorrows.”
“I cannot imagine what it must be like.”
“You’ve had your share.”
Lizvette’s only response was a thinning of her lips. Jasminda opened herself to a trickle of Earthsong, becoming better at shielding each time she tried. Lizvette’s emotions swirled in a storm of grief and longing. Surprised at their strength and depth, Jasminda lost her hold, and the connection slammed shut. The other woman’s placid, controlled face hid a maelstrom of pain.
Jasminda’s heart went out to her. “Would it … help to talk about him?”
Lizvette’s eyes widened, and her hands clenched in her lap.
“Prince Alariq?” Jasminda prompted. “It’s said talking about our departed ones keeps them alive in our hearts.”
Lizvette released her hands to the arms of the chair and took a deep breath. “Oh, Alariq. Yes. I mean, no, thank you. I…” She smoothed out the fabric of her pristine dress and smiled. “I came to see you to give you a warning. I’m afraid it might not be safe for you here in the palace. Things are becoming quite strained with public opinion regarding the refugees. Jack is doing his best, but he faces heavy opposition.”
Jasminda’s slippered foot tapped the floor as tension seeped into her limbs. “You think someone will harm me?”
Lizvette’s long neck stretched impossibly longer. She stood and crossed to the shelves, holding the most recent newspaper. “Have you seen today’s paper?”
When Jasminda shook her head, Lizvette brought it over
, smoothing the pages on the table.
MYSTERIOUS LAGRIMARI WOMAN HAS PRINCE IN A TWIST
His Grace, the Prince Regent has tongues around the palace wagging with his reported admiration for a young half-breed Lagrimari woman. Miss Jasminda ul-Sarifor, age and birthplace unknown, is a guest in the palace and has received the royal treatment. Records show that she was awarded the distinguished Order of the Grainbearer in a secret ceremony. Miss ul-Sarifor apparently saved the prince’s life shortly before his coronation, though the details of the rescue have not been forthcoming.
Prince Jaqros has turned down the social invitations of several lovely young women in the Elsiran inner circle, purportedly to further his relationship with the exotic and interbred ul-Sarifor.
Her stay in the palace is said to be ongoing, and while officials are tight-lipped as to the true nature of her relationship with our new, young prince, our eyes and ears remain open.
“The Rosira Daily Witness is not much more than an extended gossip column,” Lizvette was saying, though the oceanic roar of blood rushing through Jasminda’s ears made it difficult to hear. A bubble of despair burst in her chest as she read the headlines and scanned the other articles. She pushed the paper away, not wanting to see any more.
Lizvette’s eyes were glassy, her face sorrowful. “The press has always bothered him. They’ve never cut him any slack. Ever since his mother’s emigration. And now it’s worse than it was then.” She clucked her tongue. “She was too young and possibly too delicate for the demands of palace life. It broke her.”
Eyes the color of dying embers singed Jasminda. “He needs to be seen as strong. He needs to fill Alariq’s shoes and be loved by his people and not hated. Do you understand?”
Jasminda nodded, fighting the approaching tears.
“Father says if he marries well, he can put these troubles behind him.”
Cold fingers gripped Jasminda’s heart. Lizvette’s head lowered as she stared at the carpeting. A chilling knowledge bit Jasminda. She reached out for Earthsong again, this time prepared for the woman’s hidden emotions. The longing pervading her was not a futile thing, as it would be for a departed lover. It was vibrant, vigorous, and full of life.
“Are you in love with him?” Jasminda asked, her whole chest numb.
Lizvette blinked, momentarily taken aback by the question. A crack of vulnerability broke through her poised demeanor. In an instant, it was gone. She rose. “I only offer you advice. Please be careful. It would break him if anything happened to you.”
She left the room in a cloud of soft perfume, completely extinguishing the cooling cinders of hope still clinging to life inside Jasminda.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Horse trotted into a briar patch. She struggled savagely to free herself, but the thorns dug in deeper.
Eagle passed by saying, Avoidance will always trump escape.
—COLLECTED FOLKTALES
Jasminda was unable to focus on the thick and dusty books any longer. A build-up of pressure sat on her heart, searching for an escape valve.
She pushed the restlessness down, determined not to allow the foul power threading through the rain to affect her again. Though she had not set foot outside since the storm had struck the city early in the morning, its repulsive energy penetrated the palace walls.
Her stomach grumbled; it was long past lunchtime. Thinking it best to avoid as many people as possible, she decided to locate the kitchen herself. No need to bother Nadal when she was perfectly capable of the task.
However, her confidence in her ability to manage the often crisscrossing, often dead-end passageways of the palace had been optimistic at best. Swiveling her head back and forth at the T-shaped intersection in which she stood, she fought against the rising tide of hopelessness. The events of the past days rooted her where she stood. She feared she would never find her way again.
“May I be of assistance?” a deep voice purred behind her.
Jasminda turned to find the unpleasant man who’d practically dragged Lizvette away from her at that first dinner watching her from a doorway. Tall and broad-shouldered, he had unusually dark hair and a precise goatee. But he stared at her as if she were an item in the display case of the butcher’s shop.
A surge of anger flared inside her at his self-important expression, tempting her to grab hold of her Song. She took a deep breath to release the tension and shook off the tingling in her limbs. The storm was playing its tricks again. “I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced. I am Jasminda ul-Sarifor.” She held out her hands, challenging him to greet her properly.
“Zavros Calladeen, Minister of Foreign Affairs.” He ignored her outstretched palms but bowed deeply. The bow was more formal than the pressing of hands and indicated a higher level of respect, but she got the sense he found it distasteful to touch her.
“I was searching for the kitchens,” she said.
“Are your servants inadequate?”
“Not at all. But I’m the independent sort.” She tilted her chin higher, with each breath battling the desire to give life to her rage and wipe that haughty sneer off his face. She could rattle the ground beneath his feet or pull the moisture from the air and soak him where he stood. But she held herself very still—on the edge of a knife blade of control.
“Allow me to escort you.” He offered his elbow, though his expression made her think he meant to jab her with it.
“Oh, that’s not necessary.” Spending another moment in his company might just tip her over the edge.
“I must insist,” he said. “You never know when there may be unsavory characters around.” He spread his arms to indicate the potential villains lurking about, but the only unsavory person here was him. “I’m sure our Prince Regent would never forgive me if harm were to befall you.”
“I appreciate your concern for my welfare, but I am in no need of escort from you.”
He quirked an eyebrow. “You have had a stimulating few days here, I’m told.”
She remained silent, practically vibrating with tension.
“The incident at the refugee camp? I hear you were quite near the action.”
She gripped the fabric of her dress in tight fists to stop the shaking of her hands. The images flooded her, only serving to heighten her building fury. “If by stimulating, you mean horrifying, then you are correct. That soldier had no honor, shooting a child.”
Calladeen drew uncomfortably close. Her Song slipped free of her grasp, reaching for the well of Earthsong, filling her with vibrant energy. Her shield came up effortlessly.
“You feel the Prince Regent is acting honorably in subjecting the captain to a court-martial that could result in his execution?” he asked.
A spell escaped her, lowering the temperature in the hallway. Her voice was layered with ice when she responded, “That captain would have killed the boy for no reason if there had been no Earthsingers present. The prince is doing the only honorable thing.”
Calladeen shivered visibly in the rapidly cooling corridor. “Such a shame that honor is not the most important quality in a leader. Leadership is about making hard choices and not indulging one’s every whim. For example, bringing home a stray pet is not in line with effective governance.”
Jasminda narrowed her eyes as the space between them chilled so drastically she could see her breath in the air. “Say what you think you need to say to me.”
He pulled his collar closer to his neck as he pinned her with an accusatory glare. He must have known it was her doing this. Satisfaction unfurled within her, warming her blood. She smiled cruelly as he took a step back, a tinge of fear leaching some of the contempt from his expression.
“Your presence is a problem,” he said. “You make him weaker. Unfortunately, Jaqros is the only prince we have. He is not strong enough to survive the scandal of an attachment with you. He needs a princess the people can rally around, not some mongrel whore installed in the palace.”
The crack of her hand against
his cheek echoed across the marble floors. She had never slapped someone so hard before. She had never slapped anyone ever. But the bubbling madness inside of her applauded. Her Song surged, seeking other ways to retaliate.
Calladeen smirked, crystals of frost gathering in his goatee. Jasminda took a deep breath, vibrating with energy seeking an outlet.
“Zavros.” Jack stepped into view from behind Calladeen. The prince was all warrior now, face cut from stone. His voice was low and deadly, forcing the taller man backward a step. “If you ever so much as look in her direction again, I will personally ensure your eligibility for the Order of Eunuchs. If you have a problem with me, you bring it to me. You do not speak to her. You do not look at her. As far as you are concerned, she does not exist.”
Calladeen’s eyes widened.
“Now get out of my sight.”
The man lowered into a hasty bow before fleeing down the hallway.
The ferocious rage that had built inside Jasminda deflated with a pop. She released her Song, and the hallway warmed instantly.
Jack reached for her. She longed to fall into his arms but instead took a step back. His forehead crinkled in confusion. “Are you all right?”
Shaking her head, she took another step away from him. She didn’t trust herself, and as glad as she was to see Jack—glad that he’d intervened before the storm pushed her even further—the pain building within her came rushing to fill the space the anger had occupied.
“I caught the tail end of what he said.” Jack looked angrily toward the direction Calladeen had departed in. “You know I would not let anyone harm you. You’re too important to me.”
“Me? Important? I thought I was merely acceptable.” The words flew from her mouth, a final, bitter assault from her stung pride.