by L. Penelope
“To take me where?”
“We must hurry,” the girl said, leading her through the servants’ passages at a rapid pace.
The last vision had left Jasminda’s Song depleted, so she could not test the maid’s emotions. Jack would not have allowed her to be released to just anyone, though it was odd that he’d sent a servant she didn’t know instead of Nadal or Usher. They soon arrived at an outer door. Just under the overhang, protected from the driving rain, Lizvette waited with an unfamiliar driver and vehicle.
Jasminda froze. “Jack didn’t send you, did he?”
“It isn’t safe here for you,” Lizvette said, scanning the area as if a ruffian would spring from the bushes at any moment.
“Who wants to hurt me?”
“Please believe me. This is for the best.” Lizvette wouldn’t meet her eyes but nodded at the driver before turning away. “Do not harm her.”
The burly man narrowed his icy gaze and approached. Fear spurred Jasminda into action. She spun away and ran, but the driver reached out a long arm and grabbed her. She kicked and flailed, but her shout was muffled by his large hand covering her mouth. A pair of handcuffs clinked as the metal slid across her skin.
He manhandled her into the backseat where another man, who she hadn’t noticed before, waited. In the brief moment when the driver removed his hand from her mouth, she gasped for air to scream, but a gag was stuffed between her lips and tied around the back of her head. She continued thrashing, but the second man held her in a crushing grip. The driver took his seat and slammed the door. Jasminda struggled to look out the window, seeing only Lizvette’s retreating form disappearing into the palace.
Jasminda writhed and twisted, but the fellow holding her had arms of iron. Deciding to save her strength, she relaxed her body. Stealthily, she inched her skirt up to reach for the serrated knife strapped to her leg. She removed the blade and twisted again, preparing to slam it into her captor’s thigh. The driver’s gaze flicked to her in the rearview mirror, and he wrenched the steering wheel, swerving the car on the rain-slicked streets and knocking the knife from her grip.
Her captor growled and smashed her head against the window, momentarily blacking out her vision. She stilled as her wits returned and rested her head against the glass to cool the pounding.
Lizvette’s betrayal shouldn’t have been as shocking as it was. The woman’s coy warnings the day before had been for what? To simply mask her own desire to do Jasminda harm?
As the car wound through the city, the storm pounded away. Once again Jasminda was relieved her Song was exhausted. She would cause no destruction now. Her head swam as the auto made a turn onto a muddy road that led to only one place.
The camp was in chaos when they arrived, stopping just past a line of waiting buses. The man holding her, whose face she still hadn’t seen, pulled her from the auto. Cold rain sliced through her dress, numbing her. Rage roared inside with no outlet.
Dozens of Sisters stood before her, arms locked together, dresses plastered to their skin, topknots unraveling, attempting to form a human barrier between the soldiers and the refugees. The Sisters repeated a prayer over and over, asking the Queen Who Sleeps for protection.
Starting at the end of the line, the soldiers pried the Sisters’ hands and arms apart as the women’s prayer grew louder. Mud lapped at their ankles, and more than one man and woman slipped and splashed in the muck.
Behind the Sisters, refugees lined up solemnly in rows, waiting to board the buses, resigned to their fate. However, some would not go quietly. A handful screamed and wailed, planting themselves on the ground and refusing to move.
As the soldiers broke through the resistance of the Sisters, they also handcuffed protesting refugees and held them under armed guard before forcibly placing them on the buses. The man holding Jasminda transferred her to a young soldier who dragged her over to the group of restrained refugees and pushed her to the ground. Water and dirt oozed into her boots and coated her dress. Four men trained their rifles on the group.
Jasminda shivered. She angled her head down until she could pull the gag from her mouth, then sucked in deep breaths, surveying the turmoil around her.
A white-haired general barked orders, instructing his men to ensure every Lagrimari made it across the border. No exceptions.
“What if they won’t go?” a lieutenant asked.
“Shoot them.”
Jasminda’s shivers turned into uncontrollable shaking. Those weren’t Jack’s orders, but it didn’t seem to matter. Screams and cries filled the air.
Among the protesting Sisters was Aunt Vanesse, who spotted Jasminda and broke away from the others to rush to her side. She was distraught, wet hair caught in thick tangles down her back, her blue robes covered in mud.
“Oy!” Vanesse hailed one of the officers and pointed to Jasminda. “She is not a Lagrimari. She is an Elsiran citizen.”
The lieutenant looked at Jasminda askance and raised his eyebrows. “Do you have proof of that, Sister?”
“You have my word as an Elsiran. This girl’s mother was my sister,” Vanesse pleaded.
The lieutenant shrugged. “Even if that were true, we’re under orders.” He looked Jasminda up and down again. “How Elsiran can she be if she looks that much like a grol?” He shrugged and stomped away.
Vanesse screamed, and Jasminda reached for her hand, clasping it in her bound ones. They were both icy cold. Vanesse fell to her knees, sobbing, but a strange calm had fallen over Jasminda. Her anger had changed, transforming into a bitter sort of pity that coated her tongue.
“We both know I don’t really belong here.”
“No. You’re all I have left of Emi. I will find someone who will listen. You don’t belong over there, either.” Vanesse shuddered. “We can find a place for you. I promise.” She squeezed Jasminda’s chilled hands.
“Do you even have a place here? A way to be who you really are? With the person you love?” Jasminda’s voice had an edge to it that she hadn’t meant to put there.
Vanesse reared back as if slapped. Her mouth hung open. “What do you know of that?”
“I know that I love someone I can never be with. Not openly. And I thought stolen moments would be enough, but they’re not. I don’t want to be a secret, hidden away, never allowed to see the light of day. I don’t want to be a liability. I want to be a treasure.”
Recognition lit within Vanesse. “You are a treasure. I’m sorry that you haven’t felt that way.” She placed her palm on Jasminda’s cheek, then leaned forward to kiss her forehead.
“I wanted to tell you—I discovered why Father needed you to sign those papers. It wasn’t just because of his run for Alderman.” Vanesse sniffed, regaining her composure to brush a sodden chunk of hair from her eyes. “Emi had a trust fund worth hundreds of thousands. Seven years after her death, if unclaimed by her legal heirs, it would go back to our parents. Father had a large investment go badly, and this shipping embargo has hit his business hard. He had his eye on Emi’s money and wanted to be sure it was uncontested. If you had signed…”
“I would have given up my right to an inheritance I never even knew of,” Jasminda said. Her mind spun.
Vanesse nodded. “I didn’t know all the terms of the trust before I started looking into it. But I—I claimed the bequest in your name. The money is yours if you want it.”
Something split inside Jasminda’s chest. The warmth and love from her aunt gave her the push to drive out the lingering bitterness. Emotion clogged her throat as she felt freedom from the rain. It was a moment before her voice returned. “Thank you, Aunt.”
“There is no need. It’s what Eminette would have wanted.” Vanesse dropped her head. “I envied her courage in grabbing what she desired out of life. I envy it now.” Another Sister called her name, and Vanesse stood jerkily. She pointed to the ground. “This injustice will not stand.”
“Aunt, if you can get a message to the prince…” Jasminda said. There was little c
hance that Vanesse could get through to Jack in time. An unknown woman, even one of the Sisterhood, was unlikely to receive an audience with the Prince Regent.
Vanesse’s brow furrowed, but she nodded. “I will pray for us to meet again.” And then she was gone.
After another half hour in cold, wet misery, Jasminda was herded toward a bus with the others. A soldier pushed her roughly into a seat and locked her handcuffs around the bar, securing her in place.
Rozyl tripped up the steps, a soldier at her back. The two locked eyes. “I guess you’re one of us now,” the Keeper said, her lip curling. The soldier shoved her toward the back of the bus.
Jasminda pressed her head against the fogged window and slumped in her seat. Vanesse’s revelation beat against the impossibility and danger of her situation. If she could get out of this, she could start over, rebuild.
But the caldera was heavy in her pocket. Besides the obvious lack of appeal of being forced to live in a land she knew nothing about, she could not allow the stone to fall into the hands of the Lagrimari. She needed a plan, but didn’t know where to begin.
Through the windshield, the headlamps illuminated only a few feet ahead of them. The rest was inky blackness, rain tapping a staccato beat on the roof. The driver took to the radio, inquiring whether they would be stopping due to the hazardous conditions. The only response was static.
The True Father’s storm flooded the countryside, turning the lush, fertile farmland to swampy lakes of woe. It had tracked her this far, and now here she was, bringing the caldera directly to the enemy.
She had to protect the stone—with her life, if necessary.
CHAPTER FIFTY
The Mistress of Horses quarreled with an astronomer over the shape of stars in the sky.
What you see as a fine lady dancing, Horse said, I view as a stampeding herd.
—COLLECTED FOLKTALES
Lizvette’s only movement came from the rise and fall of her chest as she breathed. She didn’t move so much as an eyelid to blink. She sat rigid in the chair, hands clasped neatly in her lap.
Jack, on the other hand, was all motion, pacing the floor of the sitting room in the Niralls’ residence suite. “Where is she?” Gravel coated his throat.
“On a bus with the other refugees.”
He dropped his head into his hand. “Why?”
“It was the best place for her.”
Jack spun to look at her. “And that was your decision?” His supposedly healed wound throbbed angrily, as though the grief and pain were trying to claw their way out through his chest. He wrenched open the door and ordered the Guardsman outside to radio the refugee caravan and pull Jasminda off the bus.
“And was it you who destroyed her dress?” He resumed his pacing.
Her head shot up, eyes wide. “Her dress?”
“Her gown, ripped and burned and left in front of my office today.”
Lizvette blinked slowly and took a deep breath. “That wasn’t me.”
“Do you know who it was?”
She notched her chin up higher and stared straight ahead.
Jack made an exasperated sound and crouched before her, careful to maintain his distance. “Tell me.”
A single tear trailed down her cheek. Her jaw quivered. “I think it was Father,” she whispered.
“Nirall?” Jack reared back on his heels, almost falling. He braced himself with a hand on the floor and shook his head. “I don’t understand.”
Her hands were squeezed together so hard, the tips of her fingernails had lost all color. She shook her head and another tear escaped her eye. Those were more tears than Jack had ever seen her shed in her entire life. She had always been a stoic child, never screaming or crying, not even when injured. Everything kept bottled up inside, even now.
Her whole body vibrated as if the strength it took her to remain composed had run out and pure chaos reigned underneath her placid exterior. She was at war with herself. Jack could see it plainly. Her distress stole a measure of rancor from his anger.
“Vette, we have known each other all our lives. You must tell me.”
Her jaw quivered, but she nodded, darting a glance at the closed door. “He wanted me to be the princess. I suppose it would make up somewhat for me being born a girl. Alariq was kind, but he never held my heart.”
She looked at him pointedly, and his stomach sank in understanding. He opened his mouth, unsure of what to say, but she continued. “When Alariq died, Father didn’t miss a beat. He was determined to be the grandfather of the next Prince Regent, no matter what it took. Jasminda was an obstacle, but one that worked in his favor. If you would not choose me of your own free will, then he would give you a push.”
“What kind of push?”
“Feeding information to the press. Giving them fodder for the fire. Presenting me as the solution.”
“And you went along with this, Vette? Why?”
She swallowed and brushed away the wetness from her cheeks. “I never wanted to hurt you, and I certainly never wanted to see her harmed. But Jack, you are the Prince Regent of Elsira. You must marry well. Your wife is not just for you; she will be the princess of the land. Did you really think there was a future with her? It’s for the best that she leave now with the others.”
Jack shot to his feet as the ache in his chest seemed to spread to his whole body. His hands pulled at the short ends of his hair, searching for a release from his frustration. “Lizvette, there is no future for me without her.”
“So she should have stayed here, hidden away for the rest of time so you could sneak into her chambers? And then what? What about when you need an heir? She’s to be content being your mistress while you sire the next prince with someone else?”
“You had no right! Not to decide her fate. Did she get on that bus willingly?”
Lizvette turned her face to the fire. “I gave explicit instructions that she was not to be harmed.”
Jack leaned against his desk, imagining Jasminda fighting tooth and nail against whatever hired thugs Lizvette had acquired.
“Did you think of what it must have been like for her?” Lizvette looked down to her folded hands. “If, one day, someone ever loves me, I would hope they would scream it from the rooftops.” Her smile was brittle.
Jack fell onto the couch and slumped down. Lizvette was right. In a perfect world, he would have shouted his love for Jasminda from every window in the palace … but the world was far from perfect.
A knock sounded at the door, and a Guardsman entered.
“Your Grace, radio communication with the refugee caravan is down due to the thunderstorm. We’re unable to contact them.”
“Then send a telegram to the Eastern Base and keep trying the caravan. I want to make sure she doesn’t step one foot inside Lagrimar.”
“Yes, sir.” The Guardsman spun on his heel, readying to leave.
“Wait.” Weariness lay over Jack like a blanket. He looked at Lizvette and sighed. “Take her to the Guard’s offices for questioning. The charge is kidnapping. And arrest Minister Nirall, as well.”
Lizvette stood and brushed her dress off, her sad eyes relaying an apology. Jack’s head fell to his hands as the weight of the crown grew even heavier.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
Said the astronomer to the Mistress of Horses, And what of when the stars fail to shine?
Horse replied, The day the stars forsake the sky is a day not worth contemplating. For it will be our last.
—COLLECTED FOLKTALES
“There is too much interference, sir.” The communications officer flipped a switch, testing yet another connection.
“What kind of interference?” Jack asked, peering over the man’s shoulder.
“It’s very unusual, but we’re not able to contact any unit east of the Old Wall.” Static could be heard through the man’s headset.
“So the entire northeastern sector of the country is radio silent?”
“Yes, sir. No telephone, two-way,
or cable communication is operational. They’re all down.”
Jack rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s almost as if this were intentional.”
The officer looked up, startled.
Jack did the math in his head. The caravan was too far along for vehicles to catch up with it, and there was no way for him to contact anyone who could get Jasminda to safety. Panic threatened, but he beat it back through force of will.
He banged his fist on the table, and the young officer jumped. “Blast it! I would need wings to get to her now,” Jack murmured, then stopped short. His gaze rose to the ceiling.
The airship.
Alariq’s pride and joy. And the cause of his death.
It was still there on the roof of the palace. After the crash, technicians from Yaly had come to repair it. Jack had wanted the thing removed, but hadn’t yet gotten around to ordering it.
The idea was risky, too risky to even be contemplating, but what was the alternative? Jasminda trapped in Lagrimar? Forced to work in the mines or the harems or worse. She could be killed. He could not save the hundreds of refugees, much as he wanted to, but one woman, the woman most precious to him, could he not even save her?
The airship was the only way to get to the border fast enough—maybe even beat the caravan that had left hours earlier. However, it was this precise situation, flying in a rainstorm, that had killed his brother. Jack had called Alariq foolish.… Who was the fool now?
He stalked out of the communications room and into the small office the army maintained in the palace.
“I need an airship pilot. Immediately,” he told the soldier on duty.
“Sir, the army doesn’t have any ships or pilots. The airship was a gift to Prince Alariq from—”
“Yes, I know all that. But there must be someone in this city who can pilot a bloody airship. Find the ambassador to Yaly. It’s their invention, he must know someone.”
The sergeant rushed to stand, confused but determined.
“Your Grace.” A Guardsman appeared in the doorway. Jack whirled around to face him. “There’s a woman here from the Sisterhood. She’s been raising quite a ruckus for some time now, saying she needs to speak with you.”