Queen of the Unwanted

by Jenna Glass

  “Even if the spell could be reversed,” she continued, “I hardly think Mairahsol could manage it. She is not half so clever and powerful as she believes. However, I do worry that she has just enough power that any attempts she makes to undo the spell could have serious consequences. We cannot stop her from trying. But we can certainly impede her progress, and I believe it is our duty to the Mother of All to do whatever it takes to keep her from succeeding.”

  “She has been named abbess for a probationary period,” Ide mused. “If she does not succeed, she may be removed from the position.”

  More than one face lit with a touch of glee that Norah might almost term malicious. There was not a woman in their circle who had not on occasion been unkind to Mairahsol, but the girl had brought it on herself. She was a vicious, scheming pretender, and there was only so long she could hide her true nature from her lover and the king.

  “I don’t want anyone to take untoward risks,” Norah said. “But perhaps we can arrange for Lord Jalzarnin to overhear a few damning snippets of conversation when he visits the Abbey.”

  Sister Ide smiled. “You mean the kind of conversations that might plant a doubt in his mind as to the authenticity of her claims of power?”

  Norah smiled back. “Just so. And if we do all we can to ensure that she shows no signs of anything resembling progress, those hints may take root and grow. With any luck, we may succeed in discrediting her long before her six months are up.”

  Norah couldn’t honestly say she believed it would be that easy. For all that she hated Mairahsol, she had to admit that the woman had a kind of animal cunning that made her supremely dangerous. But even the most dangerous of animals could be killed by a skilled and determined hunter.

  * * *

  —

  Gracelin’s heart fluttered with nerves as she reached the end of the only real road in the town of Miller’s Bridge and saw the guard post that sat on the banks of the river, blocking the bridge that led out of the town—and out of Aaltah. Sensing her nerves, the donkey planted its feet in the middle of the road and tried to pull the rope from Gracelin’s hands.

  “What’s wrong, Mama?” little Forest called from the back of the cart. He’d stubbornly insisted he could walk even when her eyes plainly showed her he was exhausted. She’d then assigned him the “important” task of making sure none of the small flat of seedlings fell over as the donkey cart jolted over the rutted road. He was only five, but the sharp look in his eyes told her he’d seen right through her even as he’d obediently climbed into the cart.

  Gracelin forced a smile she did not feel. “Nothing,” she said, then clucked her tongue and gave the gentlest of pulls on the donkey’s lead. The animal was more easily convinced than her son, plodding forward and taking them both closer to the terrifying unknown. She took a deep breath to steady her nerves, reminding herself how little there was left for her here in Aaltah. It would be hard enough for a woman her age to find a job to support herself when she had no marketable skills, but even if she did find work, there was no one to care for Forest. She cursed her husband for dying so young without having made any provisions for her future or the future of their son.

  About two days from the border, Gracelin and Forest had fallen in with a small caravan of travelers who were heading toward the promise of Women’s Well, and she couldn’t help fearing the lot of them would be turned away. Not one among them needed more than a single donkey cart to carry all their worldly possessions—most didn’t even have that much—and all were dressed in much-mended clothes that were only sometimes clean. Nearly all the adults were women, widowed or unmarried or cast off by their husbands, and there was a palpable aura of desperation that clung to each and every one of them. Even the people of Miller’s Bridge—hardly a wealthy or noble community—looked upon their ragtag caravan with mingled expressions of distaste, disgust, and pity. Why should Women’s Well accept them?

  But they had all heard the rumors: Women’s Well had huge, empty expanses of fertile land that needed tending, and Sovereign Princess Alysoon was open to accepting common folk—even women without husbands—into her fledgling principality. Only the most desperate would risk leaving the security of Aaltah for a principality that was so small and vulnerable and likely to be torn by war. But Gracelin had to admit she was indeed desperate.

  Gracelin and her donkey cart were near the front of the caravan as they approached the bridge that led out of Aaltah. A bridge that was newly outfitted with a guardhouse, about which the members of the caravan had also heard rumors. Those who sought to leave Aaltah for Women’s Well were considered the dregs of society, and as far as the Crown was concerned, it was of no consequence if they suffered and died in their poverty. And yet with the possessiveness of a dog that refuses to give up its well-gnawed bone, the Crown also objected to its poor abandoning it.

  A large man in a stained and ill-fitting uniform stepped from the guardhouse to block the way, scowling fiercely at the caravan. Gracelin quailed inside, feeling small and vulnerable and strangely guilty. She had to remind herself that she was not doing anything illegal as she stiffened her spine and came to a stop in the dusty road. Behind her, the rest of the caravan fell silent, and Gracelin realized she was no longer just near the front.

  The guardsman sauntered up to her as several of his fellows left the guardhouse and took up positions blocking the bridge.

  “What have we here?” the guardsman asked, peering into the cart, which held everything she owned. There was one small sack that held all her clothing and Forest’s, and one small trunk that held her housewares and the few toys her husband had made for Forest. Aside from that, there was a rickety table, a pair of wooden chairs, a rolled-up, threadbare rug, and the flat of Aalwood seedlings.

  Forest, usually a friendly, gregarious child, shied away from the large, scowling guardsman. Gracelin had often found her son an excellent judge of character. She gripped the donkey’s lead more tightly, glancing nervously over her shoulder. The other members of the caravan had formed a somewhat less than orderly line behind her and were watching with interest and trepidation.

  “Where are you headed?” the guardsman asked inanely.

  It hardly seemed likely that the question was genuine—the road only led to one place—but she answered anyway, keeping her gaze demurely lowered while trying not to look too timid and deferential. “We’re going to Women’s Well.”

  “That so?” he inquired, then spat. He pointed at the flat of seedlings. “With contraband, no less.”

  Gracelin’s heart jumped, and it was all she could do not to gasp in indignation. Her voice came out tighter than she would have liked, for she hated to let the guardsman see any hint of vulnerability. “My late husband worked in an Aalwood grove. The landowner sent that flat of seedlings as a condolence when he heard of my husband’s death.” In truth, the seedlings and a bag of seeds had been sent as “payment” in lieu of her husband’s last wages. While the seeds and seedlings were technically valuable, they were of little use to Gracelin, as their value wouldn’t be realized until the trees matured. Even if Gracelin had owned land on which she could plant them, they would bring in no money for at least fifteen years—by which time she and her son would have starved to death. She had worked the Aalwood groves herself as a girl and a young woman, but no one would hire her now that she had a small child in tow.

  The guardsman glared at her with obvious suspicion, though she suspected it was all an act, meant to unnerve her. Unfortunately, it was working.

  “I kept the landowner’s letter of condolence, if you’d like to see it,” she volunteered.

  He hawked and spat again, then gestured at the trunk in the back of the wagon. Forest, who was sitting on the trunk with his thumb in his mouth, flinched at the gesture. To her surprise, the guardsman gentled his voice.

  “I need you to open that trunk and show me what’s inside,” he t
old her, then looked at Forest. “Why don’t you get down from there and stretch your legs, little man?”

  Gracelin thanked the Mother that the guardsman apparently had a soft spot for children. And that she herself was not especially young or pleasing to look at. She imagined this brute and his fellows would behave even more churlishly with a woman they found tempting. She could only hope that their little caravan was of sufficient size to protect the handful of younger, prettier women in their midst.

  “Come here, Forest,” she beckoned when it seemed the boy might not obey. Still sucking his thumb, Forest exited the cart and hurried to her side, grabbing a handful of her skirts. She laid a hand on his head, hoping to soothe his nerves despite her own turmoil as the guardsman rummaged through the trunk and her sacks. Looking for valuable “contraband” he could appropriate for himself, she supposed, though he was sorely disappointed in what he found.

  Leaving their belongings in disarray, strewn in the bottom of the cart, the guardsman seized the flat of seedlings and heaved them out. “These won’t do you any good outside of Aaltah,” he told her. “Might as well leave them behind.”

  She gritted her teeth against a protest. It was true that Aalwood trees refused to grow outside of Aaltah. The seedlings would likely wither and die within days of leaving their native land, and the seeds in the pouch she kept tucked in the pocket of her traveling dress would not sprout. But they were hers nonetheless.

  The guardsman gave her a challenging stare. “The king has decreed that anyone who leaves Aaltah for Women’s Well is no longer a citizen of Aaltah and may not return, on pain of death. I would advise you to take your seedlings, turn this wagon around, and go home.”

  Gracelin’s jaw dropped. Always when she’d thought of leaving, she’d comforted herself with the idea that if she could not find a place for herself in Women’s Well, she could return to Aaltah and be no worse off. Never had she imagined her decision to be an irreversible one.

  “Shall I put the seedlings back?” the guardsman inquired impatiently, eying the line of people behind her. He looked at his fellows who were blocking the road, jerking his chin to indicate they should let her pass.

  Gracelin bit her lip, but the moment of indecision lasted less than a second. If she stayed in Aaltah, she didn’t know how she would put a roof over her head and food on the table. At least in Women’s Well, she might have a chance at a better life for herself and her son.

  And if Women’s Well refused to grant them entry? What then, if Aaltah would not permit them to return?

  With a minute shake of her head, she took Forest’s hand and started forward. All she could do was throw herself on the mercy of Sovereign Princess Alysoon. There might not be Aalwood groves to tend, but she could hope that a principality that valued women as Women’s Well was rumored to would find some use for her.

  The guardsman grunted in satisfaction as he set the flat of seedlings aside—Gracelin figured he was in for a rude surprise when he tried to sell them and found out how little they were worth at this point in their life cycle. And she felt a certain dangerous thrill of satisfaction knowing he had not bothered to search her person and therefore had not confiscated the pouch of seeds.

  There was no reason to believe those seeds might grow in Women’s Well. None.

  Except that so many things that seemed impossible turned out to be possible after all in that land of women’s magic. So despite Gracelin’s best efforts to keep her hopes from growing to unrealistic proportions, she found her heart soaring as she crossed the bridge into her unknown future.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The kings of Rhozinolm had a long tradition of setting aside a little time each week to hear petitions from commoners. Ellin’s grandfather had held these audiences in the grand receiving room, where he sat upon his throne on a raised dais. The room was filled with eager would-be petitioners and eagle-eyed palace guards, and those who wished to speak with the king had to be willing to share their business with everyone in the room.

  Ellin knew for a fact that her grandfather’s method of hearing petitions was specifically designed to make him seem accessible while discouraging any but the boldest of commoners from making demands on his time, so she had moved the audiences to a small and informal parlor. Petitioners were asked to wait in a comfortable reception area until it was their turn to meet with her, and while she couldn’t grant them absolute privacy for security reasons, there were only two guards inside the room. She was certain she did not see as many petitioners as her grandfather had, for the intimacy of the audiences invited longer conversation, but those who came to her showed every sign of appreciating her attention and discretion.

  The audiences were unquestionably wearing—no one asked to see the queen without bringing a story of woe that tugged at her heartstrings and made her wish she could right the injustices of the world with a snap of her fingers—but Ellin never once considered curtailing them, and she heard as many petitions as she possibly could each time.

  Her day’s audience was nearing its end, for which she felt guiltily glad, when a young woman in a tattered brown cloak was shown into the parlor. Ellin smiled in a way she often found soothed the nerves of those who were in awe of her, meeting the young woman’s eyes with warmth that belied her weariness.

  Ellin blinked and frowned as the guardsman who had shown the woman in retreated, for she looked vaguely familiar—and younger than Ellin had taken her to be on first glance. A girl, rather than a grown woman.

  The girl delivered a deep and graceful curtsy, the movement practiced and easy. “Forgive me, Your Majesty,” she said, and even her voice seemed distantly familiar. “I’m afraid I’m here under false pretenses.”

  One of the guards took a hasty step in the girl’s direction, but Ellin sensed no threat from her, so she waved him off. He continued to hover instead of retreating to his post, but he did not lay hands on the girl.

  “I feel as if we have met before,” Ellin said, trying and failing to place that face and that voice.

  “We have,” the girl confirmed. “Three years ago at my sister’s coming out ball.”

  Commoners did not have coming out balls, and when Ellin stopped thinking of the girl as a commoner, her face and voice finally came into clear focus. “Norbryn!” she exclaimed suddenly, sitting back in her chair.

  The girl had made quite the impression at the time, for at thirteen years old, she was far too young to attend a ball. Which hadn’t stopped her from making a brief appearance, much to her parents’ consternation. Ellin remembered her mother muttering darkly that Norbryn was bound to end up in the Abbey someday. And yet it was her prim and proper sister, Leebryn, who had been condemned to the Abbey earlier this very year for failing to give her husband a child. Ellin shook her head, for it seemed Norbryn had not taken her sister’s example to heart.

  “Does your father know you’re here?” Ellin asked, already knowing the answer.

  Norbryn raised her chin defiantly. “No. He would not allow me to bring my petition to you the proper way, so I had to get creative.”

  The guard gave Ellin an inquiring look, silently offering to remove the girl, but Ellin shook her head ever so slightly. He took a step back and assumed an expression of stoic indifference.

  Ellin gestured Norbryn into a chair. “I don’t imagine your father will be best pleased to discover your creativity,” she murmured, and Norbryn winced delicately.

  “No, he will not,” the girl confirmed. “But it is worth enduring whatever punishment he gives me if I can help Leebryn.” She blinked rapidly, but Ellin saw the sheen of tears in her eyes anyway.

  “I cannot intervene,” Ellin said regretfully. “Someday, I hope that I will be able to change the laws that allow a husband to send his wife to the Abbey against her will, but that day is not yet come.”

  Honestly, Ellin dreamed of a day when she could abolish the Abbey altog
ether, as Alys had in Women’s Well. But with her fledgling principality and her devoted citizens, Alys had luxuries that Ellin did not. Ellin had convinced her royal council to outlaw the practice of forcing women of the Abbey into prostitution, but she knew she had only succeeded because the fear of women’s Kai made the prospect of rape unappealing. Abolishing the Abbey altogether was not possible in the current climate and with her shaky grip on her throne.

  Norbryn dabbed at the corner of her eye, nodding. “I understand that you cannot order the Abbey to release Leebryn or order her husband to take her back. But because of the changes you have already made to our laws, I am hoping you will not condone my sister being forced to sell her body at the pavilion.”

  Ellin frowned in puzzlement. She could imagine no other law Norbryn might be referencing save the outlawing of forced prostitution. “I don’t understand. No one at the Abbey is being forced to work the pavilion anymore.” She was aware that the pavilion still operated, though the treasurer frequently grumbled at the reduction of its income, but the women who worked it did so by choice. They weren’t exactly paid for their efforts, but those who worked the pavilion were given additional creature comforts. The situation was far from ideal, but it seemed to Ellin a decent first step.

  Fire flashed in Norbryn’s eyes. “Tell that to my sister!” she snarled, then gasped and covered her mouth with her hand. “Oh! Please forgive me!” Her eyes watered, and her breaths came tight and shallow as she tried to control her anguish.