Queen of the Unwanted

by Jenna Glass

  “I know how Nandelites are about women in general,” she muttered, shaking her head. Most of the world regarded women’s magic as something unclean, only to be practiced by women who’d been shamed and ruined and sent to the Abbey of the Unwanted. In Nandel, even the women of the Abbey were forbidden to practice magic. And respectable women were considered property of their husbands or fathers and had few rights under the law.

  “Yes,” Kailindar agreed. “We are unfortunately not coming into these negotiations from a position of strength. Not only do we have a woman on the throne, but we’ve allied ourselves with another female-led principality. A rogue principality, in Waldmir’s view. Now we propose to make his despised nephew the power behind our throne—again, in his view.”

  Ellin wasn’t sure if she was imagining enemies where none existed, but she could have sworn she heard a faint undertone of threat in Kailindar’s voice. A hint that possibly the negotiations would be easier if she stepped aside and let a man take the throne? She narrowed her eyes at him, but saw no hint of Tamzin’s cunning or ambition in his expression. That didn’t mean they weren’t there, however; it might just mean he was better at hiding them.

  “Have you by any chance mentioned my dismissal of Lord Creethan in your discussions?” Ellin asked, letting the faintest hint of an edge enter her voice. If Kailindar was angry enough about that “childish” decision, would he use it to undermine the marriage negotiations? She was certain Waldmir would take the dimmest possible view of her decision to punish a member of her royal council in defense of the Unwanted Women of Rhozinolm.

  Kailindar’s eyes narrowed in annoyance. “Of course not. I’m sure he’s heard of it by now—as I warned you, it has created quite the sensation—and I doubt it has made him any more favorably inclined toward you, but I’m not foolish enough to rub his face in it.”

  “What do you suggest I do, Uncle?” she asked, for it was a rare man who did not relish being asked for his sage advice.

  Kailindar steepled his fingers, looking lost in thought. “First, I would suggest you persuade Zarsha to tell you what the issue is between him and Waldmir. We have always assumed you would be an even more attractive match now that you are queen, but if Waldmir hates Zarsha enough, it’s possible that your marriage is no longer the key to renewing the agreements after all. I myself would have done anything to keep Tamzin from gaining the power of the throne, and if Waldmir feels the same way about Zarsha…”

  Ellin opened her mouth to remind him that Zarsha was not going to gain the power of the throne, but of course reality wasn’t the issue. Waldmir assumed Zarsha would have the true power if they married, and that perception might ruin everything.

  When she’d finally gotten over her childish dislike of Zarsha, Ellin had found that he was kindhearted and true, with a whip-smart mind that had more than once helped her out of an impossible situation. There was far more to him than his charm and good looks—though he had those in generous quantities—and sometimes when he touched her, she felt a stirring of attraction she’d feared she’d never feel again when the man she’d loved had betrayed her.

  It was hard to know her own mind when her thoughts and feelings were aswirl, but she was fairly certain that she now actually wanted to marry Zarsha. She did not feel for him the fiery passion she had felt for Graesan, did not long for him with that same kind of aching need. But Graesan had betrayed her, and marriage to Zarsha would be far more pleasant than the vast majority of diplomatic marriages.

  Yet under all that, there was another reason Zarsha was an ideal husband: he was a foreigner, and therefore there would never be any pressure for her to cede her throne to him once they were married. Such was not the case for any other likely prospects, and though she had succeeded to the throne with the idea that her reign would last a year or two at most, she found she was now disinclined to step down in favor of her future husband—whoever he might be.

  Kailindar shifted in his chair, drawing her attention once more. “If Waldmir’s reluctance to sanction this marriage turns out to be real, and not just another negotiating tactic, you will be forced to make some very difficult decisions. If, for example, Waldmir’s true objection is to your close ties with Princess Alysoon, I hope you will think only of the good of Rhozinolm when you consider which of our trade agreements is the most vital.”

  “In other words, if it comes down to a choice between having trade with Women’s Well and trade with Nandel, I must choose Nandel.”

  He nodded.

  “And if it turns out Waldmir cannot countenance having Zarsha so close to my throne?” She gave him her most challenging glare, daring him to put his implications into words. Kailindar might not be popular, but at least he was male. If she could not restore the trade agreements with Nandel by making Zarsha her prince consort—and no one came up with another inducement that would work—then if he decided to challenge the legitimacy of her rule, he might very well win.

  “I don’t lust for the throne, Your Majesty,” he said, holding up his hands in a gesture of innocence. He looked and sounded sincere enough, but trust was a luxury she could not afford.

  “Are you certain, Uncle?” she asked in a dangerous undertone, and had the momentary satisfaction of seeing a look of unease cross his face.

  “I want what is best for Rhozinolm,” he said. “Even if I did lust for the throne, I’m not the sort of man who would endanger our kingdom to take it.”

  “So the council was wrong to think you’d go to war with Tamzin if they put him on the throne?”

  “You are not Tamzin. I would argue that a war would have been the lesser evil than having him on the throne. And may I remind you that I eat one of those damned seed cakes at the start of every council meeting. If you think I’m a threat…” He lifted his shoulders in a gesture that was meant to look nonchalant.

  Ellin was sure he knew as well as she that she couldn’t afford to cold-bloodedly murder any more of her advisers. If Tamzin hadn’t been in the act of committing treason when she’d killed him, she’d have ended up in a dungeon, queen or not. The ring she wore and the seed cakes her council members ate were nothing more than a ceremonial reminder, and she did not believe for a moment that they would prevent her uncle from making trouble if he so chose. Which meant that perhaps a different tactic was in order.

  She needed to make certain he was fully committed both to arranging her marriage to Zarsha and to continuing to trade with Women’s Well, and she suspected she knew just the lever to use.

  “How is Kailee?” she asked. “I believe she has a birthday coming up?”

  Kailindar stiffened and paled at the mention of his daughter by his first wife. The poor girl had been blind since birth, and though he’d consulted with the abbess of every abbey throughout Seven Wells, no one had been able to reverse the girl’s condition. Some men would have sent the child to the Abbey as soon as the blindness was deemed incurable, and the older Kailee grew, the more polite society murmured. Worse even than the blindness itself was the appearance of her milky eyes. In an old woman, the milkiness would be dismissed as cataracts. But in a woman Kailee’s age, the first impression was that her Mindseye was shockingly open. Even with her beauty and her impeccable pedigree, she was considered unmarriageable. And there was only one place an unmarriageable girl was meant to live.

  Kailindar looked so stricken that Ellin instantly regretted the impulse to mention his daughter directly after having questioned his loyalty. He clearly doted on the girl, and how could he not take her question as a threat under the circumstances? A fact of which she’d been well aware before she’d spoken. She’d let her suspicions get the best of her and been needlessly cruel.

  “Forgive me, Uncle,” she said, refusing to lie by claiming innocence. “I wish no ill upon your daughter.”

  “But you can command me to send her to the Abbey, and you wanted to remind me of that fact. I was actuall
y pleasantly surprised you did not bring that up when I opposed your decision to dismiss Lord Creethan. It seems I gave you too much credit.” His voice was cold and bitter, and he would not meet her eyes.

  The words stung, and Ellin cursed herself for mismanaging the conversation. He might have bristled and heard a threat no matter how she’d broached the subject, but she’d done so in a way guaranteed to make him shut down when what she needed was for him to open up.

  “I would never command you to send her to the Abbey,” she insisted. “You have my word on that. Kailee is sweet and kind and deserves all the love you can give her.”

  Kailindar was clearly unconvinced. “You wouldn’t be the first person to suggest I should have sent her to the Abbey by now.”

  “Perhaps not, but you won’t hear it from me.” Even with the improvements she had forced down the Abbey’s throat, it was little better than a prison, though its inhabitants were guilty of no crime. “I was rather thinking that perhaps I could help you find a husband for her.”

  Kailindar shook his head. “I will not have her married by royal decree.”

  Ellin sighed quietly. While she could technically command one of her subjects to marry Kailee, she was well aware that doing so would do the girl no favors. “That isn’t what I meant.” It was far too likely that any man forced to marry her would swiftly divorce her and send her to the Abbey, and while the sovereign had the right to order her subjects to marry, she did not have the right to forbid them to divorce. “I merely wanted to ask if you would mind if I made some inquiries on her behalf.” In truth, she already had someone in mind, but she was not yet ready to show her hand.

  Kailindar stared at her in silence for a moment, no doubt trying to guess her intent. That he was still hearing a hint of threat in her offer seemed clear. “I can’t imagine there is a man who would have her to whom I’d be willing to entrust her,” he said carefully. “But I have no objection to you trying.”

  She nodded briskly. “Very well then. I will see what I can do. You have my word that I will neither order you to send her to the Abbey nor order her marriage if you and she are not agreeable to the match.”

  His gaze was still wary as he met her eyes. “And I give you my word that I will always do what is best for Rhozinolm. It would never even occur to me to sabotage the negotiations with Prince Waldmir merely because I disagreed with one of your decisions. I hope you believe that.”

  “I do,” she said with somewhat more assurance than she felt. It was hard to shake the feeling that he might be waiting in the wings, secretly hoping for her to fail so he could usurp the throne for himself. But perhaps that was merely an insidious side effect to Tamzin’s scheming. Perhaps her cousin’s greed for the throne had tainted her view so much she could not trust her own instincts.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Delnamal had never expected to enjoy being king—he’d seen the harried, stressful, complicated life his father had lived and had not envied the man—but he had never fully appreciated just how tedious it could be. The meetings of the royal council were the absolute worst.

  He’d been attending council meetings since he’d turned fourteen, and when he’d been a boy, his father had had an annoying habit of quizzing him on the proceedings afterward to make sure he’d paid attention. But as a man, he’d happily let his attention drift whenever the topic was especially dull, and though he suspected his father had been aware of this dereliction of duty, he had never called Delnamal to the table over it.

  Now that Delnamal was king himself, however, he no longer had the freedom to tune out the boring parts—which was, to tell the truth, most of it—and if he missed anything or someone had to repeat himself, he was well aware of the disapproving glances around the table.

  Delnamal took a sip of his wine, hoping that little bit of movement would help wake him up as the trade minister droned on and on about the intricacies of one of Aaltah’s myriad trade agreements. It seemed there were new ones coming up for renegotiation every day, and if there was a topic duller than trade, Delnamal couldn’t name it. He really should rearrange the daily agenda so that the trade minister’s report did not come directly after luncheon. With a satisfying meal digesting in his belly and several goblets of wine mellowing his mood, that droning voice was as soporific as a mother’s lullaby.

  He blinked and gulped down the rest of his wine, realizing that despite his best intentions, he’d been on the verge of falling asleep. The wine really was most excellent, and he gestured with his goblet for the page to refill it. The lord commander frowned as the page obeyed, but Delnamal pretended not to see it. If the lord commander expected him to sit through the remaining hours of the afternoon without the aid and comfort of a drink, he was much mistaken. Of all the members of his royal council, the lord commander—who had once been the commanding officer of Delnamal’s revoltingly perfect half-brother—was the one who most often gave the impression he was measuring Delnamal against his former protégé and finding him lacking.

  The world was pleasantly hazy around the edges, and Delnamal was wondering if he could maybe close his eyes for just a few seconds without anyone noticing, when it suddenly occurred to him that the room had gone silent. Blinking in the vain hope that it might clear the fog, Delnamal sat a little straighter, surprised to find that his shoulders had been slumped forward, his chin nearly touching his chest.

  The council room remained silent except for the sound of uncomfortably shifting asses.

  “Well, go on then,” he said irritably, grabbing for his goblet once more only to find it empty. “I wasn’t asleep. I was just resting my eyes.” Someone coughed, and Delnamal looked sharply at the other side of the table, ready to tear into anyone who dared challenge his assertion. No eyes met his.

  “Get me some goddamn wine, will you?” he barked at the page, who hurried to obey. “Now where were we?”

  The trade minister—officious twit that he was—cleared his throat with far more drama than necessary. “As I was saying, Your Majesty, the new terms offered are not quite on the level of offensive, but they are only just short of it. That little queen of theirs is feeling her oats, I should say. She is trying to appear the tough negotiator, but she has perhaps overplayed her hand.”

  Delnamal wondered just how long he’d been asleep—for he must indeed have drifted off, because he had no idea which trade agreement was being discussed, nor what terms had been offered. What he did know was that the bitch queen of Rhozinolm was directly responsible for his ignominious retreat from the borders of Women’s Well, and he was not about to allow her to insult him again.

  “Ordinarily,” the trade minister continued, “I would counter with an offer somewhere in the middle, but—”

  “Cancel it,” Delnamal interrupted.

  There was an audible gasp around the room, and the trade minister looked about to faint from shock. Delnamal felt a stirring of misgiving—apparently, they were not discussing one of the minor trade agreements of the sort he was used to hearing every day—but he could hardly halt the proceedings now and admit he did not actually know what they were talking about. The lord commander was practically glaring at him, as if Delnamal were one of his cadets who’d spoken out of turn to a superior officer.

  “Rhozinolm needs to be taught a lesson,” he said, swigging more wine. “If they cannot be bothered to make a good-faith offer, then we cannot be bothered to make an agreement with them at all.”

  The trade minister, still pale, rubbed his hands nervously on the table. “Threatening to withdraw from the agreement is perhaps a somewhat extreme tactic of negotiation,” he said carefully, “but it may well frighten the girl into making a more palatable offer.”

  Delnamal felt almost as if he were two people, both sitting within one body. One of him was absurdly grateful that the trade minister had handed him this opportunity to gracefully retreat—of course he had meant to say they should
threaten to cancel the agreement, not that they should actually do so. The other did not appreciate having a member of the lower council putting words into his mouth, when he was quite certain the trade minister knew he had been entirely serious when he’d said to cancel it.

  There was a brief struggle as his two minds battled for supremacy, and he wasn’t even entirely sure what he had decided, but words came out of his mouth anyway. “I said cancel it. Rhozinolm has never been a friend to Aaltah, and now they shall reap the rewards of their bad behavior.”

  The silence in the room was deafening. Delnamal ignored it as he drained the rest of his wine and once again held up his goblet for more.

  It wasn’t until after the meeting was over that Delnamal learned which trade agreement he had so blithely canceled. Apparently, the merchants of Aaltah would now lose their supply of Zinolm wool, the softest and most luxurious wool available anywhere in Seven Wells. Zinolm wool was not a vital necessity, he assured himself. Certainly it was in high demand—his winter wardrobe was full of the stuff—and certain spoiled members of the nobility would be annoyed at the loss. But surely his people would not have expected him to bend over for that damned queen to get it for them. He had stood up for the sovereign dignity of Aaltah, and that was his duty.

  The people of Aaltah would understand. As long as no one on his council spoke too freely about the exact circumstances under which he had canceled the agreement.

  But they wouldn’t, of course. Discussing council business outside the council chamber was strictly forbidden and could lead to charges of treason. He would make certain the council was reminded frequently of that point of law, and they would keep their mouths shut.

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