by Jenna Glass
There was some truth to Chanlix’s words, for Women’s Well was still in a precarious position. They had formed an alliance and trade agreements with Queen Ellinsoltah of Rhozinolm—an alliance that had saved them from Delnamal’s army—but they needed as many inducements to trade as they could come up with. It would not be wise for their grand magus to be seen researching a spell that was not of more general use.
Alys, on the other hand…
“I have very little time to practice my magic these days,” she said, “but that also means that no one is expecting me to develop valuable spells for commercial distribution.” Not that she hadn’t been instrumental in developing some extremely powerful and highly sought-after spells in the days before the governance of Women’s Well had taken over her life. “I will see if I can come up with anything that might help.”
“Thank you, Your Royal Highness,” Chanlix said with a grateful bow of her head. “If anyone can find a solution, it will be you.”
Alys stifled her reflexive need to reject what felt uncomfortably like flattery. However, the fact remained that she and Tynthanal had inherited a great deal of magical ability from their mother. Alys knew of no other woman who could see even half the number of elements she could see. She did not have the level of magical training Chanlix or the rest of the men and women of the Academy did, but her ability to work with such a wide variety of elements gave her a definite advantage.
Alys shook her head and frowned as all at once she realized the implications if she should succeed in creating a viable potion. She was sure her face lost just a little color, and she felt like an idiot for not thinking of it sooner.
Chanlix reached over and patted her shoulder in an affectionate gesture that might not have been strictly appropriate to their respective ranks, though Alys didn’t mind.
“I do realize what it would mean if Tynthanal were able to sire children,” Chanlix reassured her.
Alys met the other woman’s gaze and saw both wisdom and resolve. “So you understand that he will not be free to marry you if his marriage can be used to diplomatic advantage.”
Chanlix nodded. “I do.” She smiled sadly. “I long ago gave up all hope of ever becoming a wife or a mother. If I can only have one of the two, I would rather be a mother.”
Chanlix broke eye contact and looked away. At first, Alys assumed she did it from sadness, but then she saw a hint of what looked very much like guilt on the woman’s face.
“Did you discuss this with Tynthanal before you made fertility potions for him?” Alys asked, already knowing the answer.
Chanlix fidgeted and said nothing. Alys groaned.
“Chanlix…”
“I know,” Chanlix assured her. “I told myself at first that he had to have figured it out himself.” She held up a hand to stave off Alys’s rebuttal. “I am as capable of lying to myself as the next person. I think I always knew he hadn’t realized the implications. I promise that if you come up with a potion you believe is worth trying that I’ll make sure he understands.”
Alys shook her head. “He will be furious that you didn’t mention it before. Even if he really should have figured it out himself.”
Chanlix managed a half-smile. “He’s good at lying to himself, too.” She quickly sobered. “But then men are not trained from birth to measure their worth by their marriage prospects as we are. He forgot his hand could be a commodity.”
There was no hint of bitterness in Chanlix’s voice. It seemed she had already made peace with the idea of being either an unwed mother or a childless wife. How Alys hated the unfairness of the world.
“Will you promise not to hate me if I’m forced to marry him to someone else?” she asked, her chest tightening in pain at the prospect. The Sovereign Princess of Women’s Well should never allow friendship or even love to interfere with her duties to her principality, and yet Alys wasn’t sure she had the strength to do something that might cost her her closest friend and her brother.
Chanlix dispensed with protocol entirely, rising to her feet and giving Alys a hug. “Of course I won’t hate you,” she said soothingly. She met Alys’s eyes, and there was nothing but stoic resolve in her gaze. “I have always been a realist. Tynthanal is the son of a king and the brother of a sovereign princess. Men such as he have almost as little say in their marriages as women. If you haven’t received any inquiries into his availability yet, then it is only because people believe Women’s Well is doomed.”
Alys grimaced, but it was no more than the truth. She expected that as Women’s Well continued to grow and prosper, she would be receiving multiple inquiries into Tynthanal’s availability. And even her own, though she had never thought to remarry after Sylnin’s death, and the prospect made something within her recoil in horror.
“It is better for everyone if Tynthanal can father children,” Chanlix concluded. “How could I possibly hate you for giving me the chance to be a mother?”
Alys smiled sadly. “And do you think Tynthanal will feel the same way if I succeed?”
She already knew the answer to her own question. All of his adult life he’d enjoyed the advantages of being a king’s son along with the freedom that came with illegitimacy. He was fully accustomed to thinking of his life as his own, and as a lifelong soldier, he’d been far enough removed from the machinations of the court that he did not yet realize how his life had changed when he’d urged Alys to declare herself a sovereign princess.
“He is a good man,” Chanlix said with conviction. “He will not be happy about it, but he will understand.”
Alys remained far from convinced.
* * *
—
King Delnamal of Aaltah could not abide the sight of a red-robed abigail in the halls of his palace, and so he was not present when the midwife sent from the much-altered Abbey of Aaltah examined his bride of just over a month. He stayed shut up in the sitting room of his personal apartments, a decanter of brandy and a tray of sweetmeats by his side. He partook of both equally, not caring that both his wife and the dowager queen, his mother, would object. His girth was now such that a brisk walk from one end of the palace to the other left him exhausted and gasping for breath, and he doubted his ability to mount a horse—or the beast’s ability to bear him. But that did not stop him from eating. The brandy—and at other times wine, whiskey, and even ale—was the only thing that made his days tolerable, and he cared not about his physician’s dire warnings about the condition of his liver.
Delnamal couldn’t have said whether his most earnest desire was that the midwife declare his wife expecting, or not. It was, of course, his duty as king to produce an heir—which difficulty had led to his divorcing his first wife, who had miserably failed in her own duty and then had the gall to flee from him and join forces with his enemy. He should want nothing more than the happy news that Queen Oona was already seeded with a boy who would one day succeed him as king. But he’d had an heir on the way before, and though his former wife’s miscarriage of that child had angered him, it had also been something of a secret relief not to have to be a father yet.
It might be even more of a relief if he were to learn Oona was just late with her monthly. His hasty marriage to a widow with a small child still clinging to her skirts had seemed something of a dream come true when he’d arranged it. He had wanted to marry Oona since he’d been a pimple-faced boy of fourteen, and he had often cursed the fate that sent them each to marry another. It had seemed like the ultimate fuck you to that fate when he had become king and her husband had “surprisingly” fallen victim to a cutthroat in the street. She had come to his bed, and then he had married her well before her year of official mourning had ended—despite grumbled objections from his council, who argued a king should marry a virgin with a lofty title and hefty dowry, not a widowed mother from the minor gentry.
Having Oona by his side—and in his bed—was every
bit as gratifying as he had expected. However, having Oona’s brat in his home was an entirely different story. Everyone assured him the four-year-old was extremely well behaved, and Delnamal had as little contact with the boy as possible, but what contact he did have was enough to renew his conviction that he was not made for fatherhood.
He did not like children. And though his mother had assured him he would feel differently when he held one of his own, he remained unconvinced. He hardly had Oona to himself now, thanks to her brat, but he had more of her than he would have if there was a new infant in their home. He wanted—no, deserved—more than one month of her (somewhat) undivided attention.
There was a tentative knock on his door, the sound so soft and delicate it could only be made by one person.
“Come,” he said, standing ponderously, heart pounding more with fear than excitement. It was a disgraceful attitude for any grown man, much less a king, but knowing that only made him more surly.
Oona stepped into the study, dropping a deep and elegant curtsy. She was still the most beautiful creature he had ever laid eyes on, even though she was no longer in the first bloom of youth. While his former wife had been homely and awkward, with no discernible sense of fashion, Oona was the kind of woman who drew the attention of all whenever she set foot in a room. Even now, after her visit with the midwife, she was exquisitely put together in a gown of cream and gold, her every hair in place beneath a net of gold and pearls.
Delnamal sucked in a deep breath while he drank her in with his eyes. He fought off the urge to reach for his brandy before asking “What was the verdict?”
Oona smiled tremulously and put a hand on her belly, a gesture so universal Delnamal could not miss its meaning. “I am going to give you a son,” she declared, and the tears in her eyes were tears of joy. “He may arrive a little earlier than is strictly considered proper, but then it is not all that uncommon for babes to leave their mothers’ wombs in less than the traditional nine months.”
It was his own fault, Delnamal realized, and felt like smacking himself in the head for his foolishness. There had been a period of several months during which there was no Abbey of the Unwanted in Aaltah, and during that time, contraceptive potions had been hard to come by. He could have sent off for a supply from a foreign abbey, but he’d been far too impatient to have Oona in his bed, and his use of sheaths had been both inexpert and inconsistent.
“Surely you are glad of this news, Your Majesty?” Oona asked, and Delnamal realized he’d been scowling fiercely instead of receiving the news with the joy of a soon-to-be father.
“Of course, my love,” he said, forcing a smile he was quite certain did not convince her. “What man is not overjoyed when he learns his beautiful wife is expecting his son?” What man indeed? he wondered. He put his arms around Oona and hugged her close so that she could not read any of the contradictory feelings on his face.
Oona settled into his arms, her head resting against his shoulder. She smelled of faintly floral perfume. “I so want to make you happy,” she murmured softly.
He squeezed her a little tighter, kissing the top of her head, though she probably didn’t even feel it through the netting and pearls. “You do,” he assured her.
But it was a lie, and they both knew it. He was the King of Aaltah, married to his childhood love, beholden to no one, and with a son and heir on the way. And yet he was a far cry from being happy.
His people did not love him and never had. They had always preferred his father’s bastard, Tynthanal, who was so fucking perfect at everything and had now rebelled against the Crown—and gotten away with it!
His council did not respect him. Although he had clearly had very good reasons for withdrawing his army from the Women’s Well borders—what good would smashing the upstart “principality” have done if Rhozinolm’s forces had sailed nearly uncontested into Aaltah’s capital?—it was clear they laid the blame and the ignominy of that retreat squarely at his feet.
And his whoring bitch of a half-sister had not only revolted against his rule but also declared herself the sovereign princess of her worthless excuse for a principality. A principality! What a ridiculous delusion of grandeur for a glorified encampment that had once been the virtual prison of the banished abigails of Aaltah!
The truth was, he could never be truly happy while his half-brother and half-sister lived, and while they presided over that joke of a principality. Only when they and all the rebels who’d joined them were dead, their town razed to the ground, and their abomination of a Well sealed off and guarded so that none might be contaminated by it, could he possibly find happiness.
CHAPTER NINE
“You can’t really be serious about this,” Shelvon said as Falcor led her to the center of the garden behind her house.
Not that it was accurate to describe the house as hers. It was the house that she occupied, but it belonged to Sovereign Princess Alysoon. As did the clothes Shelvon wore, the shoes on her feet, and the food that she ate. The fact of so little actually belonging to her had never bothered her—had never even crossed her mind—when her living had been paid for by her husband or her father; as a woman of Nandel, she had always been taught that nothing, not even her body, belonged to her. But it felt strangely different here in Women’s Well, where she had neither husband nor father to support her.
A great many other single women—former abigails—were supporting themselves by working at the Women’s Well Academy. She envied them their self-sufficiency, even if she had not yet completely succeeded in getting over her discomfort at the idea of women practicing magic. Or of former abigails being treated as perfectly respectable members of society.
Princess Alysoon insisted that supporting Shelvon financially was the least she could do after all the risks Shelvon had taken to help spirit Corlin away from Delnamal, and yet Shelvon couldn’t help feeling like a stray dog accepting scraps.
“Of course I’m serious,” Falcor said jovially, smiling at her as his auburn hair caught the sun. “A little physical activity will do you good.”
“Then perhaps I should learn how to plant a garden,” she suggested, though she had no desire to root around in the dirt.
Falcor gave a regretful sigh. “I’m afraid I don’t know the first thing about gardening, so I can’t help you with that.” He brightened and held out a sword to her. “I am, however, fairly accomplished with a sword. Now go ahead. Take it. I promise it won’t bite you.”
Shelvon regarded the unadorned hilt doubtfully. She thought back over the last several conversations they’d had, and she was quite sure she had never actually agreed to let him teach her how to use a sword, so she wasn’t entirely sure what she was doing out here. She put her hands on her hips.
“Doesn’t the lord chamberlain have better things to do with his time?” she asked, knowing full well he would not be deterred so easily.
He shrugged. “I would not have accepted the office if it meant I could no longer swing a sword. I have spent all my life with a sword strapped to my side, and I wouldn’t know what to do with myself without it.”
“I don’t see what any of that has to do with me.” Falcor had once been Princess Alysoon’s master of the guard, but after he had helped Shelvon and Corlin escape Aaltah, he had been elevated to her royal council. “You can wear your sword without having to give lessons.”
“Take the sword, Lady Shelvon. I believe you will enjoy it, else I wouldn’t be offering to teach you.”
She frowned at him. “I’m not sure offering is the word you’re looking for,” she quipped, but almost to her own surprise, she closed her hand over the hilt. “Oh!” she said when he let go. “It’s lighter than I thought.” She had expected to struggle with the weight.
“A quick man with a light sword makes quick work of a strong man with a heavy one.” He drew his own sword, which she saw had little more adornment than the on
e he had given her. It was the sword of an honor guardsman, not of the lord chamberlain, but then if there was an iota of pretension in Falcor, she had yet to see it. “This is the pommel,” Falcor said, indicating the round protuberance at the very bottom of the hilt. “This is the grip,” he said, hand moving up and down the rest of the hilt. “The cross-guard,” pointing at the tee of metal perpendicular to the blade, “and, as you will no doubt be shocked to hear, the blade.” He flicked a fingernail against the length of sharpened steel, and she shook her head at him.
“Your teaching style could use some work.”
“Rule one of longsword lessons: never criticize your teacher when he’s holding a deadly weapon.”
The man had the audacity to wink at her. She had known Falcor for nearly six months now—though admittedly not well until their harrowing flight from Aaltah—and she’d always known him to have a reasonably grave and serious demeanor. The man standing here in her garden winking at her was a stranger, but then he’d been trying to jolly her ever since he’d caught her crying in a low moment when she was lamenting how lost and alone she felt.
You don’t have to work this hard at it, she wanted to tell him, but that seemed…churlish. And unkind.
“Hold it like this,” Falcor said, and she watched as he wrapped the fingers of his right hand around the grip, and his left around the bottom of the hilt, over the pommel.
Shelvon did the same with her sword, feeling faintly ridiculous.
“What I’m going to teach you first is a drill, something you can do every day without needing a partner.”
Shelvon sucked in her cheeks and tried not to laugh at the idea of her going through longsword drills every day—by herself, no less. She wouldn’t have even touched the stupid sword in the first place if he hadn’t half-bullied her into it.