by Jenna Glass
“You are up to the challenge,” Star assured her stoutly.
“Which one?”
“All of them.”
Ellin couldn’t help smiling in genuine affection. It would perhaps be inappropriate to call Star her friend, but that was the space she occupied in Ellin’s heart, regardless of the difference in their stations. “If only my royal council had as much confidence in me as you do.”
As was nearly always the case, her first order of official business this morning would be presiding over the meeting of her royal council. They were nominally more cooperative since she’d used magic she’d acquired from Sovereign Princess Alysoon to brutally murder her cousin Tamzin when he had tried to launch a revolt in the midst of one of their meetings, but there was never a day when she didn’t remember how easily her lord commander and her lord high treasurer—managers of the money and the military that supported the Crown—had been swayed by Tamzin’s rabble-rousing. They might have abandoned their open resistance at Tamzin’s death, but that hardly made them her most ardent supporters. And today she could no longer use her mourning as an excuse to delay some difficult conversations.
“They don’t know you as well as I do,” Star said. “You are a formidable queen, and those who don’t know it yet will soon learn the truth.” She frowned. “ ‘Soon’ being a relative term, if you insist on hiding in your dressing room.”
Ellin made an unladylike face. “I’m not hiding.”
“Then why are you still here? You’ve been dressed for a good quarter hour already.”
“I’m sure that’s an exaggeration,” Ellin said, “but your point is taken.” She quickly touched a hand to the gold circlet that rested on her brow, patted her hair, then realized that while she might not be hiding exactly, she was certainly dithering.
Turning from the mirror, she finally emerged from her dressing room, leaving the royal apartments and making her way through the palace halls until she reached the council chamber. As befitted a monarch, she was always the last to arrive at these meetings. In the old days, before she had made an example of Tamzin, she would enter the room to find the traditional tray of refreshments well and truly picked over. These days, the tray contained only dainty—and quite delicious—seed cakes, and everyone waited until she had arrived and given them permission to sit before taking one. In the first few meetings after they’d seen what her spelled ring could do to a man whose stomach contained those seeds, they’d been hesitant to touch the cakes. Then her lord chancellor—her one true ally among her advisers—had boldly taken a cake and finished it off in a couple of bites. The others had much more reluctantly followed suit, some of them practically gagging on what had once been considered a treat.
No one had forgotten the danger those seed cakes represented, but the ritual eating of them had become commonplace enough that there was no longer any choking or gagging. Ellin even took one for herself—they really were quite delicious—although her memory of Tamzin’s death was as visceral and unpleasant as theirs.
Dabbing at her lips to ensure no seeds were left clinging, she turned to her lord chancellor. “What is first on our agenda today, Lord Semsulin?” she asked.
It wasn’t truly a question, for of course she and her lord chancellor had discussed their strategy well in advance of the day her official mourning ended. Since the moment she had ascended to the throne, her entire royal council had been obsessed with the prospect of her marriage. Her cousin Tamzin had been the most insistent that she marry with all possible haste and hand the throne over to the more capable hands of a man. Specifically, himself.
When she’d cast the spell that killed Tamzin, she had made it clear that she had no intention of ceding her throne to her husband, but the question of her marriage was still very much an open one.
Semsulin’s habitually dour expression lifted momentarily at her pretended innocence, but he did not go so far as to smile. “I believe now that your mourning period has ended, we must discuss your marriage prospects.”
Lord Kailindar—who was both her uncle and the man who had succeeded Tamzin to the office of lord chamberlain—raised both his bushy eyebrows in inquiry. “Prospects? As in more than one?”
Semsulin lifted one shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. “Well, it seems unlikely that we will have more than one candidate on the table, but I’m sure Her Majesty is open to suggestion if there is someone we have missed.”
“I am open to suggestion,” she confirmed, though she wasn’t sure that was entirely true, “but if that suggestion is anyone other than Zarsha of Nandel, there must be a corresponding suggestion for other ways we can induce Sovereign Prince Waldmir to renew our trade agreements.” Her grandfather, King Linolm, had nearly a decade ago convinced Prince Waldmir to accept a trade agreement that was highly favorable to Rhozinolm, but relations between their two lands had cooled over time. Waldmir’s daughter had married the Crown Prince of Aaltah, and nothing Rhozinolm had been able to offer, aside from Ellin’s hand for Prince Waldmir’s nephew, had swayed him to renew those agreements on the same favorable terms.
Now that King Delnamal had divorced Prince Waldmir’s daughter, it was not impossible that some form of agreement could be managed without her marrying Zarsha, but certainly not on favorable terms. Although Waldmir had signed the previous agreement with Linolm, and it had all been done in perfect good faith, Waldmir had come to feel he’d been taken advantage of, and he had brought that sense of offense to the bargaining table every time.
Ellin had long ago gotten over her violent—and admittedly unfair—dislike of Zarsha, and the thought of marrying him no longer filled her with dread. He was both a canny adviser and a good—if distressingly complicated—friend. But though she doubted she would find any other candidate a more pleasing choice, she did not much enjoy the feeling she would marry him simply because there was no better option.
“Are we certain a marriage to Zarsha would prompt Prince Waldmir to renew those agreements?” her trade minister inquired. “The match is…highly unusual, and Prince Waldmir might find his nephew’s marriage to a sovereign queen as some form of subjugation.”
It was an objection that no one had ever raised before, and Ellin felt an uncomfortable prickle of anxiety. Zarsha had been more than willing—eager, even—to enter into a marriage with a woman who would forever outrank him, but he was not a typical Nandelite. In that backward—but very powerful—principality, women were entirely subservient to the men in their lives, lawful property of their fathers or husbands. Zarsha could never be accepted as a king in Rhozinolm, so there was no question of ceding her throne to him on marriage; but would his uncle be insulted that he was offered the title of prince consort instead?
“Zarsha has never suggested there would be any difficulty,” she said, though it was hardly a definitive answer. She had yet to catch Zarsha in a lie, but there was no doubt in her mind that he kept a good many secrets. He had as much as admitted that a part of his purpose for lingering in Rhozinolm had been to act as his uncle’s spy.
“I have met Prince Waldmir,” Kailindar said, “though only the once. He might feign insult in hopes of improving the terms of any agreement we might make, but my impression is that he is at heart a practical man. He hoped his grandson would one day sit on the throne of Aaltah, but now that King Delnamal has divorced his daughter, he cannot help but be tempted by our offer.”
He turned toward Ellin. “As I am already acquainted with Prince Waldmir, and as your closest living relative, I believe I should represent the Crown on your behalf.”
She frowned at him. “It was my impression that when arranging a marriage for the king, the king speaks for himself. Am I mistaken?” She hoped the expression on her face conveyed innocence rather than suspicion. Although Kailindar had supported her against Tamzin, he’d done so because he was against Tamzin, not because he was for her. Under ordinary circumstances, he, as the bas
tard son of the late king, would be sitting on the throne of Rhozinolm instead of Ellin, and she didn’t entirely trust his motives.
Kailindar resisted the urge to point out that she was not a king, though the thought was writ plainly across his face. “That would ordinarily be the case,” he confirmed. “However, I am concerned that a man like Prince Waldmir might not enter into negotiations in good faith if you negotiate on your own behalf.”
“You mean because I am a woman,” she said, having no patience for subtle insinuations.
“Yes,” Kailindar answered unrepentantly. “Keep in mind, the man is little more than a barbarian warlord, and the principality of Nandel is hardly a bastion of enlightenment when it comes to their treatment of their women. I mean no disrespect to you when I suggest Waldmir might hope to take advantage of you.”
Several members of the council—predictably—nodded their agreement, and Ellin fought down a surge of annoyance. Every time she allowed herself to believe she was finally earning their respect, she would receive some unwelcome reminder that she was still “just a woman.”
“I’m sure Her Majesty is more than capable of looking after her own interests,” Lord Semsulin said, and Ellin had to suppress the urge to flash him a grateful smile. The urge was quickly quelled when he continued. “However, it might be to our advantage to humor Prince Waldmir’s prejudices. The need to renew the agreements is pressing, and though I have absolute faith that he will eventually come to respect our fair queen, we can ill afford the time it would take to establish the necessary environment of mutual respect.”
Under the table, Ellin clenched her hand into a fist, nails biting into her palm as she fought not to allow her sense of betrayal to show on her face. She understood Semsulin’s point—and she might even have to admit that he was likely correct, for the trade agreements were set to expire within a month—but it stung nonetheless.
Their eyes met briefly, and she could read the apology in his gaze. She knew the battle was already lost, but she swore to never again allow men to negotiate her fate without her consent. She turned to Kailindar.
“Very well, Lord Kailindar,” she said. “You may contact Prince Waldmir and begin the negotiations. But you are to enter into no agreements without consulting me first. Is that perfectly clear?”
Kailindar bowed his head. “Of course, Your Majesty.”
She searched his face for any hint of deceit or rebellion, but saw nothing. She did not want to trust him with negotiations that could so greatly affect the course of her own life, but with even Semsulin warning her against entering into those negotiations on her own behalf, she had little choice.
CHAPTER FOUR
Mairahsol stepped into the abbess’s apartment—her apartment—and couldn’t resist breaking into a delighted grin. For ten years, she’d slept in a dismal dormitory on a sagging cot surrounded by ten or fifteen other women. No privacy or personal space, no comfort, no dignity. Every abigail, no matter the station in life she had enjoyed before entering the Abbey, had the same bed, the same threadbare covers, the same thin pillow, the same oft-mended robes.
The abbess’s apartment was a far cry from the luxury of her childhood home, having only two rooms and furnishings that were little better than mismatched castoffs. But it was something that was uniquely hers.
“Is there anything else you need, Mother Mairahsol?” asked Norah, the abigail who had escorted Mairahsol to her new quarters. The disdain that colored the woman’s tone was surprisingly satisfying.
Mairahsol smiled at the older abigail, who’d had every reason to believe she would be the new abbess. How the respectful title must burn in the old woman’s throat! She and her cadre of self-righteous crones would choke on it every time they were forced to utter the words.
“Now that you mention it, Sister Norah, I think the rooms could use a good scrubbing.” She wrinkled her nose. “It smells like old lady in here.”
Fury flared in Norah’s eyes, and her mouth dropped open in shock at the disrespect of the old abbess’s memory. Not so long ago, Mairahsol would have been denied meals—or perhaps even beaten—for daring such an insult. In fact, she had been. Ordinarily, she’d managed to keep her opinions to herself, but in moments of weakness she had not been able to resist the desperate need to lash out. The price of her incautious words could be read in the scars on her back.
Now, she could say whatever she wished—within the walls of this abbey, at least—and anyone who didn’t like it would have firsthand knowledge of what it felt like to have a leather strap taken to vulnerable bare flesh. She was not a cruel person by nature, but she nevertheless looked forward to her first excuse to exercise her new power. There were so many women in this abbey who had mistreated her, and the satisfaction of returning the favor was positively delicious to contemplate.
The fury in Norah’s eyes was quickly overtaken by a shimmer of tears, which she blinked furiously to clear. The older abigails had all worshipped the late abbess, and their grief at her passing was as sincere as it was revolting. Mairah couldn’t imagine how anyone could have felt affection for the spiteful old hag.
“Have you no sense of decency whatsoever?” Norah asked, her voice hoarse with suppressed grief.
“Careful, Norah,” Mairahsol warned, savoring the moment. “I’m the abbess now, and if you don’t speak to me with the proper respect, there will be consequences.”
Norah stiffened her spine and met Mairahsol’s eyes. “Don’t pretend you won’t find excuses to have me punished even if I grovel at your feet.”
Mairah’s smile broadened. Over her twenty-nine years of life, she had honed her skill for revenge to an art form, and the prospect of paying Norah and her crones back for all the years they’d scorned and abused her was sweet indeed. The only thing sweeter would be never to have to avenge herself again, but life had taught her there were always more people waiting for a chance to be cruel.
“Don’t pretend you haven’t earned it.”
Norah snorted. “You have always played the part of the innocent victim, haven’t you? I’ve never been able to tell whether you are playacting or whether you actually believe yourself blameless.”
Mairahsol clenched her teeth, hating that this old woman still had the power to hurt her. Docking Norah’s meals or having her beaten might eventually take that power away from her, but such things took time. Perhaps Mairahsol could engineer a more permanent solution—as she had for the old abbess. But that, too, would take time, for another sudden and unexpected death in the Abbey so soon might arouse suspicions.
“I believe it is time you embark on a fast, Sister Norah,” she said. “Three days, though the duration could be extended if I do not find you appropriately contrite.”
Norah showed no sign of surprise or even dismay. But then Norah had never been forced to go hungry for three days, did not appreciate just how severe the hunger pangs would become as she stood at the wall of shame in the dining hall and watched her sisters eat their fill.
“Of all the women in this abbey,” Norah said softly, “you are the only one who made a conscious choice to condemn yourself to this life. You are not a victim, no matter how much you pretend to be.”
“Five days.”
Mairahsol finally had the pleasure of seeing Norah flinch. It was convenient that the old bitch had given her such an easy excuse to flex her muscles. As the rest of the abigails saw their sister suffer, they would understand that the tables had turned, that Mairahsol was no longer vulnerable to their cruelty and machinations. She would finally, finally be treated with respect. She had no idea how to go about reversing the Aaltah woman’s Curse, but she had no intention of ever letting go of her new title. One way or another, she would convince the king she was making progress. And she would never sleep in the abigails’ dormitory again.
* * *
—
Alys strode down the main s
treet of Women’s Well at a pace just short of a run, the men of her honor guard following silently on her heels as if afraid to draw her attention. She imagined her rage was a nearly visible aura around her, and she half expected the townsfolk to run for cover as she stormed past. Her heart pounded against her rib cage, and her damned stays squeezed so tightly she could hardly breathe.
She had never wanted her son to be a soldier, and now she wished she had never allowed herself to be persuaded to let him join the Citadel. She had resisted because she had feared what might happen to Corlin in the regrettably likely event of war. What she had not expected was for her son—who had already been through so much and suffered so cruelly at the hands of his uncle—to be beaten by her lord commander, the man she had entrusted with his care.
The town of Women’s Well was less than a year old, but it was growing so rapidly that it would soon be large enough to call a city. The abundance of elements produced by their impossible Well lent itself to all sorts of spells that were good for building and growth, making it possible to erect buildings in less than half the time it would take elsewhere. The street down which Alys traveled had not so long ago been a barren track in the dust, but was now a tree-lined avenue busy with traffic, all of which moved quickly to the side as she and her entourage hurried past.
The Citadel of Women’s Well was a far cry from the venerable Citadel she had known during her life in Aaltah. Much smaller than its counterparts in older, more established lands, the hastily constructed barracks and training facilities were almost entirely built of wood, for stone was more expensive to acquire in this remote territory. There was no proper wall separating the Citadel from the rest of the town, merely a low fence. Townsfolk sometimes gathered around the fence to watch the soldiers drill, and Alys was painfully aware of the scene she caused as she passed by.