Queen of the Unwanted

by Jenna Glass

  That was the life her father was ordering her to return to, and though he clearly had a low opinion of her intelligence, he surely didn’t think her so stupid as not to know what would happen to her if she obeyed.

  Not so very long ago, she might have believed she had no choice but to do as her father commanded. After all, according to Nandel tradition, he owned her now that her husband had not only put her aside but condemned her as a traitor. There was no question of any woman, much less one as disgraced as she, making her own decisions.

  But she was far from Nandel, and though her father would be outraged that she was taking advantage of Princess Alysoon’s charitable offer to support her, that outrage no longer had the power to intimidate her. Taking a deep, determined breath, she tossed the letter into the fire with no intention of responding.

  It was one in what had become a long streak of acts of defiance, but it didn’t make her feel any braver. Nerves roiled in her belly as she imagined what her father would do when he received no response. She wished she believed he would just let her go—it wasn’t as if she mattered to him, after all—but she had the sickening suspicion he would not make it so easy for her. Waldmir did not suffer defiance from anyone, least of all his daughters.

  Shivering despite the warmth of the fire, she lowered herself into a chair and tried very hard not to think about what her future held.

  * * *

  —

  Alys stroked the three vials that contained what she considered the most promising male fertility potions she had put together during her stolen bits of time at the Academy. As with all magic and potions, the only way to know for sure whether these worked was to test them. She had been practicing magic long enough to feel confident that her potions would do no harm—though she had created corresponding antidotes, just to be certain—but she had put off telling Tynthanal what she was up to, and why, until the last possible moment. Although Chanlix had assured her she and Tynthanal had discussed the ramifications of a successful potion, Alys suspected that being destined for a marriage of state in theory was very different from knowing a potential bride had already been chosen for him.

  Which meant she had to approach the upcoming conversation with her coat of emotional armor firmly in place.

  Tynthanal bowed when he was shown into the informal receiving room in the town hall, where Alys would continue to attend to all affairs of state until the palace was habitable. Ever since he had intercepted her at the Citadel, she’d sensed a hint of wariness in him whenever they spoke in private. She’d assured him she’d gotten over her initial anger with him over his defense of Jailom—and it was true—but she had the feeling he did not fully believe it.

  “You wished to see me, Your Royal Highness?” he inquired as he rose from his bow and the page who had shown him in closed the receiving room door.

  The address was perfectly right and proper—especially while the page was in hearing distance—but she couldn’t quite get used to it coming from her little brother. Of course, after he heard what she had to say, he might use forms of address she found even less comfortable.

  Swallowing the knot of apprehension that had formed in her throat, Alys gestured to the chair before her desk. Tynthanal sat obediently, and his gaze darted quickly to the trio of vials half-hidden under her other hand.

  “What are those?” Though his wary expression said he’d already guessed.

  “Maybe nothing,” she answered as she lifted her hand so he could see the vials more clearly. Each one was labeled with its key element, and if none worked on the first attempt, she would try a new formulation with more motes of the key element. “But I hope at least one of them will turn out to be a viable fertility potion for men.” She pushed the vials across the desk toward Tynthanal, who suddenly seemed fascinated by the arm of his chair. He had shown himself exceedingly uncomfortable with any discussion of his inability to sire children—though perhaps that was only the case when in his sister’s presence.

  He cleared his throat. “Yes, er, Chanlix had mentioned you had promised to look into that.”

  “And she also mentioned what it would mean for your future if one of these potions were to work,” Alys said, watching her brother’s face closely. He seemed reluctant to make eye contact, and his index finger was tapping restlessly against the chair—a nervous gesture of which Alys suspected he was unaware.

  He nodded, the muscles of his jaw tight. “She seems to think that if I become capable of siring an heir, you will then consider me a valuable commodity to be traded like prized horseflesh. I had trouble believing you would do such a thing to a woman who has given so much to you and to this principality. You would not forbid her to marry whom she wished after all that.” There was no missing the warning in his voice.

  Alys uttered a silent curse under her breath. Chanlix had led her to believe Tynthanal was at least grudgingly accepting of the reality of his position. Had she been willfully blind, seeing only what she wanted to see? And would she be as eager to have Tynthanal take the potions if she knew that Kailee Rah-Kailindar was waiting in the wings?

  Guilt and trepidation made Alys’s voice sharper than she would have liked when she responded. “You’re not naïve. You know how important marriages of state are to the diplomatic status of any kingdom or principality.” She took a moment to gather herself and cleanse the anger from her voice. “If Father hadn’t divorced Mama, neither one of us would have had any choice as to whom we married. We are lucky that we’ve both experienced love, despite the heartache that love might bring.

  “We need whatever alliances we can make, and there is no stronger bond than that of marriages within the royal family. I know that I myself will have to marry again when my mourning is complete, and I can guarantee you I do not look forward to the prospect after having been happily married to a man I loved for so many years.

  “If you cannot have children, then I can withhold you from the marriage market as long as I am free to explain why, so that no one might take offense. But if you get Chanlix with child, then there will be no excuse I can give. You lost the right to have the final say in your marriage when I became Sovereign Princess of Women’s Well—at your insistence, I might add. We must now both put the well-being of our principality before our own happiness.”

  She recounted her conversation with Ellinsoltah and the proposal the Queen of Rhozinolm had made. The longer she spoke, the more she explained, the stonier her brother’s expression became, until finally her voice petered out. Her palms were damp with sweat, and she was uncomfortably aware of the hard thump of her pulse.

  “So that’s it, then?” Tynthanal said after a long and resentful silence. “You’d force me to abandon the woman I love to save Ellinsoltah the trouble of having to deal with a rival claimant to her throne?”

  “You make it sound like some triviality,” she retorted. “A man’s life hangs in the balance, although I hope you know I would put your happiness above the life of some man I’ve never met. But don’t you see that the issue would never have come up if Ellinsoltah had a firm hold on her throne? We owe our very existence to her willingness to protect us from Aaltah. If you marry Kailee, we will be assured of Rhozinolm’s support even if Ellinsoltah is dethroned.”

  “Then offer Corlin in my stead!” Tynthanal snapped. “If this marriage of state is so important, it shouldn’t matter that he’s younger than his potential bride!”

  Alys growled in frustration. She understood her brother’s distress, and she wished there were another way out, but she was in no mood to deal with a temper tantrum. “Stop being a child!” she snapped back. “As you well know, he cannot enter into a legal marriage agreement for another three years. I would not want to trust the lives of everyone in this principality on a nonbinding verbal agreement, would you? Even Delnamal did his duty and married Shelvon when he loved another. Are you telling me you cannot measure up to him, of all people?�
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  She had the satisfaction of seeing her verbal barb hit its mark as Tynthanal flinched at the comparison. He had to see the truth in her words, and yet he refused to accept them. “So you’re basically telling me I have to take your damn potions or else!” There was a hint of panic hiding behind the anger that flashed in his eyes.

  Alys wondered how many young women had worn that particular expression over the long history of Seven Wells, how many had screamed and cried and begged to be released from unwanted marriages only to have their wishes ignored. Why should her brother be any different? And why did he have to make an already difficult situation even harder? “Yes,” she bit out. “That’s it exactly.”

  “Fine!” he snarled, pushing back his chair and standing up. “I’ll take the ‘or else.’ ”

  He gave his chair an angry shove, then stalked out of the room without awaiting a response. When the door closed behind him, Alys let out a groan and propped her elbows on her desk, covering her eyes. She wanted once again to retreat to the darkness of her room and hide away from the world. Yes, the grief would have its way with her, but at least she wouldn’t have to force herself to function, to face impossible decisions and painful conversations like this one.

  She had not expected Tynthanal to take the news well, and she’d been more than prepared for a certain amount of resistance. In truth, she’d put the conversation off more than once as she had tried to shore up the emotional armor she’d needed to face it. But she had no plan for how to deal with an outright refusal.

  In theory, she could command him as her subject to take the potions, but she wouldn’t do that to him even if she thought he would obey. No, she would have to rely on Chanlix—as well as Tynthanal’s deep-seated sense of responsibility for their principality—to change his mind.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Mairahsol sighed contentedly as she laid her head on Jalzarnin’s shoulder. It had been more than a week since last he had come to the Abbey, and she had begun to grow concerned that he had tired of her. But there had been no missing his enthusiasm in the bed tonight, and when she’d looked deep into his eyes, she’d seen something more than lust. He wanted her still, but more than that, he cared about her. If he said he’d stopped visiting so frequently for the sake of discretion, then she had to accept it as the truth, even if it made her nervous that her hold on him was slipping.

  “Only a week without you in my arms,” he murmured, “and I feel like a man who’s been adrift at sea for half his life.”

  She smiled and cuddled closer, stroking the sparse hairs on his chest as she inhaled the scents of incense and man that rose from his skin. “At least you have a wife at home to see to your needs,” she teased, making a pouty face at him. “I have no one.”

  He snorted softly. “I can’t even remember the last time my wife came to my bed. Which you know perfectly well, so stop pretending to be jealous.”

  It was true that Jalzarnin had told her all about his frigid wife in the early days of their relationship. She had even felt vaguely sorry for him. And yet even so, she was just a tiny bit jealous. His wife could have him, if she wanted, as often as she liked. His wife also lived in a fine home, with all the comforts that came with being married to the lord high priest. She had been beautiful when she was younger—or at least so Mairah had heard—and she was a well-respected lady who received more invitations to dinners and parties and balls than she could possibly accept. The stupid bitch had it all and didn’t even know it.

  “She doesn’t deserve you,” Mairah said, angry all over again at how fickle and unfair life was. “If I were the wife of the lord high priest, I would do everything I could to make him happy.”

  It was the life she’d dreamed of when she came out to society and caught the eye of a highly respectable gentleman everyone predicted would be lord high priest someday. Jalzarnin’s wife had no idea how lucky she was, living the life Mairah should have had.

  Jalzarnin stroked her hair and laughed softly. “I suspect if you had been wed to Lord Granlin, he would be dead by now and you in the dungeon or worse. You would never have put up with a pious hypocrite for a husband. And don’t fool yourself into thinking he would have been true to you. A man who cheats on his wife will do so no matter who that wife is.”

  “Says the voice of experience?” she asked, then regretted the catty comment immediately.

  Jalzarnin showed no sign of being offended. “It’s not cheating when it’s done by mutual agreement.”

  Mairah propped her head on her hand and peered at his face. “So you have never slept with a woman behind your wife’s back?” It seemed…improbable at best.

  He smiled. “I don’t give her an itemized list of my affairs. There’s a limit to how much she wants to know. But we do love each other, albeit in an odd way.”

  Mairah had no right to be stung at the revelation, and yet she was anyway. She did not want to love Jalzarnin, and she’d frequently told herself that her attachment to him was due to nothing more than practicality. It would be pure foolishness for an abigail—even the abbess—to allow herself to love a man when she could never marry him and had to hide their relationship. Especially a man like Jalzarnin. She believed he genuinely cared about her, but he was also using her and made little effort to keep his ulterior motives secret. But no matter how well she understood the boundaries of their relationship, there was still a part of her that desperately craved love, that wanted to come first in a man’s heart.

  Jalzarnin must have seen the hurt she’d tried to hide, for he gathered her into his arms and held her tightly. “The love I have for you is different,” he assured her. “My loving friendship with my wife is a guttering candle next to the roaring flame between you and me.”

  She pulled out of his embrace, unwilling to be mollified so easily. She looked into his eyes, seeing nothing in them but earnestness and truth. “What is it you see in me?” she asked—a question she had frequently asked herself and yet had never dared ask him. She had always believed that his attraction could be entirely attributed to his perception of her usefulness, that he had courted her so that he could take advantage of her talents for eavesdropping and subterfuge. And yet sometimes when she looked in his eyes, she could have sworn she saw something more.

  “Even if my face weren’t ruined,” she said, “what man—what sane man—would want to share a bed with a woman of my reputation? Especially the lord high priest, who has a wife of whom I could conceivably become jealous?”

  No one could possibly forget what had happened to the last man who’d shared her bed and dared to make her jealous.

  Lord Granlin had been a priest of the highest caliber, famously pious, and from a prominent family distantly related to the king. When Mairah and her then–best friend Linrai had come out, Lord Granlin had courted them both, drawing that courtship out over the course of a full season. Mairah and Linrai were both of sufficient station to make them attractive choices for a man who had his eye on becoming lord high priest. Both had immaculate reputations and would have looked appropriately resplendent displayed on his arm at parties and balls. Most importantly, both would come with dowries sufficient to pay off his family’s debts, which were the only stain on his otherwise flawless public image.

  In an attempt to give herself every possible advantage, Mairah had flirted rather outrageously with Lord Granlin and begun allowing him certain…liberties. Liberties that a man who hoped to be lord high priest, a man who was supposed to set a shining example of virtuous manhood, should never have taken advantage of. Nonetheless, despite Mairah’s flirting, it was unquestionably Lord Granlin who had initiated her deflowering after telling her he had decided to offer for her. Some part of her had known it was unwise to take him at his word, but she’d been young and foolish and in love.

  Before Lord Granlin got around to announcing their engagement—which he’d assured Mairah he would do promptly—Li
nrai must have sensed she was losing the battle and slipped Mairah the poison that had destroyed her face. Mairah could never prove the little bitch was responsible—the poison had left no trace that any healer could find—but all it had taken was one look at her supposed best friend’s face when next they met for Mairah to know exactly what had happened to her, why her face was marred with pox that occurred nowhere else on her body and had never made her ill.

  Lord Granlin had offered for Linrai immediately, and the two were married within the year. His debts were paid off, his family’s standing—both financial and social—secured, and Mairah was sure the happy couple had all but dismissed her from their minds. But Mairah was not one to let such an insult go unpunished. She was back on the marriage market herself, but with her pockmarked face, she was unlikely to find a husband, and if she did, she was likely to find herself repudiated instantly on her wedding night when he discovered she was not the paragon of virtue her parents claimed.

  Lord Granlin and Lady Linrai had destroyed Mairah’s life. And she refused to let them get away with it. With the help of a simple aphrodisiac potion, Mairah had cornered and seduced Lord Granlin at a party being thrown in his honor—to thank him for his generous donation to the Temple of the Creator, no less. And she’d made sure that they would be caught, that all of Khalpar high society would know what he had done.

  The humiliation had cost Lord Granlin any hope of becoming lord high priest, but Mairah’s revenge had run even deeper than that. For having so publicly broken his marriage vows, Lord Granlin was obligated to return Linrai’s dowry to her family in reparation for the insult. Overnight, Lady Linrai’s “grand catch” had turned into an impoverished social pariah, and their marriage could never recover.

  Mairah had known, of course, that she was ruining herself. She had thought long and hard about all the ways she could get her revenge, and had decided that this most perfect of all acts of vengeance was worth the sacrifice of being condemned to the Abbey.