Queen of the Unwanted

by Jenna Glass

  Rhojal was the epitome of everything Delnamal found distasteful about the people of Nandel. His hair was so blond it was almost white, and his skin tone was only a couple of shades darker. But it was his eyes that always gave Delnamal a case of the shivers. The blue of them was such a shock of brightness in the otherwise pallid complexion, and the expression in them was always so cold and forbidding that Delnamal felt certain he was being judged and found wanting.

  Also typical of the people of Nandel, Rhojal considered color and ornamentation frivolous and unnecessary, even for evening dress. He looked like a black cloud of doom in the Rose Room, with its soft colors and its delicate floral motifs.

  “Your Majesty,” Rhojal said with a respectful bow. His voice was deeper than his spare frame led one to expect, but it went with his unrelentingly somber demeanor and dress.

  Delnamal nodded to acknowledge the greeting, glancing around the room in hopes of finding some wine or brandy lying about, but as this was an unofficial meeting, no one had thought to stock the Rose Room with refreshments. He had made every effort to limit the amount of alcohol he consumed during the dinner, knowing he would need his wits about him for this meeting, but his body was no longer used to such austerity, and his nerves jittered and complained.

  “Thank you for coming,” Delnamal said, for he hadn’t been certain the ambassador would meet with him under such irregular circumstances.

  Rhojal’s thin lips curved upward in the barest hint of a smile, which was what passed for an emotional outburst for him. “How could I refuse such an intriguing invitation?” Those too-bright eyes of his studied Delnamal’s face with an intensity that bordered on rudeness.

  “Shall we sit?” Delnamal invited with a sweeping motion toward a sofa and chairs near the fireplace. The fireplace itself contained no more than a couple of glowing embers, leaving the room uncomfortably cold. Delnamal would have called for a servant to stoke it, except the fewer people who knew about this conversation, the better. No servant in his palace would dare to discuss anything witnessed, no matter how unusual, but one could never be too careful.

  Rhojal chose the hardest, straightest chair to sit on, and Delnamal felt sure he was being judged once again for his own choice of a plump, comfortable armchair. The chair groaned softly with his weight, and he made a mental note to himself to have it replaced with something sturdier. He was heavy, but he wasn’t enormous. Not yet, at least, though he noticed with displeasure that his new doublet was straining over his middle once again.

  “I must admit to a most unseemly degree of curiosity,” the ambassador said, once again smiling that thin smile of his. “I’ve been ambassador to Aaltah for almost two decades, and not once have I been summoned to an unofficial—perhaps even clandestine—meeting with the king.”

  Delnamal fought to keep his expression neutral, for the other thing he despised about Nandelites was their damned directness. There was no gentle buildup, no coy word games, and barely even a nod to common courtesy.

  “I would hardly call this clandestine,” he said. “I could easily have come up with something more secret than this.”

  “Granted, Your Majesty. And yet you will admit this is a highly irregular occasion.”

  Delnamal clasped his hands together in his lap, wishing once again that he had a drink. Well and good to try to keep his head clear, but he should at least have drunk enough to take the edge off. He felt awkward and fidgety, and he was certain Rhojal was aware of it.

  “It is,” Delnamal agreed. “But then these are unusual times.”

  “That they are. And relations between our two lands are not quite what they were just a few months ago.”

  There he was being blunt again when a little careful phrasing could have made this conversation so much easier. But it was only to be expected from a man of Nandel, and Delnamal would do his best to respond in kind.

  “I am, of course, most sorry to have disappointed Sovereign Prince Waldmir after having offered him my niece in marriage,” he said. “But she was a traitor to the Crown, and thus was hardly an appropriate bride for His Royal Highness.”

  And, he thought with a complex mixture of emotions, she had apparently been well on her way to dying when she’d set off to meet Waldmir anyway. He’d thought her illness at the start of the journey had been a ruse to give Shelvon and Corlin more time to flee, but she’d been at death’s door when she’d returned to Aalwell at his command. He would never forget the shock of seeing her dull eyes staring out of a face that was more bones than flesh.

  He’d thought to end her suffering as soon as his healers had declared her past saving, and yet he’d hesitated, keeping her hidden and supposedly imprisoned, until her mysterious illness had carried her off. Only then had he brought in the headsman for her “execution.”

  He had never been fond of Jinnell—how could he be, when she was Alysoon’s child?—but he was not immune to pity, and even a touch of guilt that it might have been the journeys he’d ordered her to undertake that had laid her so low. He would never know whether he would have eventually ordered her execution as a traitor as he claimed to have done.

  Rhojal lifted his hands in a shruglike gesture. “Be that as it may, it is still an uncomfortable reality that you divorced Prince Waldmir’s daughter and then executed his bride-to-be within an alarmingly short span of time. His Royal Highness is not to be blamed for thinking that perhaps Aaltah is not the most reliable of business partners with you at the helm.”

  Delnamal’s fists clenched, and it was all he could do to keep his temper from breaking free. “There’s directness, and then there’s outright discourtesy,” he growled through his teeth. “You are treading dangerously close to the latter.”

  “Forgive me, Your Majesty,” Rhojal said, bowing his head. “I did not mean to give offense. But I see no reason to pretend that all is well when we both know that it is not.”

  Delnamal was half tempted to send the ambassador home and demand Waldmir replace him with someone who had at least a modicum of diplomacy. But considering how unhappy his royal council already was with him for cancelling the trade agreement with Rhozinolm, he could not afford to further antagonize such a vital ally. Nandel was the only source of iron and most gems on the mainland. Khalpar, as Aaltah’s staunchest ally, could provide the resources, but the cost of shipping such heavy items over the Wellspring Sea was prohibitive even with the most beneficial of terms. There was a reason Nandel was so anxiously courted by those who thought them uncouth barbarians.

  Swallowing insults and disrespect had never been one of Delnamal’s most practiced skills, but he was determined to do it this time. He was well aware that Waldmir’s nephew might marry the Queen of Rhozinolm, and that marriage might very well inspire Waldmir to decide he no longer needed to provide iron or gems to Aaltah. The bitch queen had already threatened to invade Aaltah if Delnamal did not withdraw his forces from Women’s Well, and if they were to gain exclusive access to Nandel’s iron and gems…

  The possibility did not bear consideration. He would find a way to repair relations with Nandel, and together they would bring both Rhozinolm and Women’s Well to heel.

  “You are right, of course,” Delnamal said, though the words cost him. He dared not look Rhojal right in the eye, for if he saw any hint of smugness or triumph, he might not be able to contain himself after all. “And that is the reason why I wanted to meet with you. You understand that my decisions about Shelvon and about my niece were both made with considerable thought and with unquestionable justification. It would not be appropriate for me to make any kind of formal reparations to Prince Waldmir under the circumstances.”

  He risked a glance at Rhojal’s face now and saw that the ambassador was watching him with furrowed brow. The expression looked more like deep thought than anger, so Delnamal felt encouraged. At least the man was not assuming Delnamal was a half-wit who had no more to say than tha
t.

  “You perhaps are considering offering informal reparations?” Rhojal prompted.

  Delnamal smiled, imagining just how Alysoon would feel when she learned the fate of her pathetic trade “caravan.” How long would Rhozinolm’s support last if the promised resources never reached their destination? “I just happen to have come into possession of some very valuable magic items. A group of, er, bandits, apparently intercepted a caravan from Women’s Well intended for Rhozinolm. The bandits brought their cargo into Aaltah, where my soldiers fought and defeated them. Naturally, they confiscated the cargo, but I am hardly inclined to send it on to its original destination.”

  If the “bandits” had attacked a caravan that was traveling through Aaltah with the appropriate permits, the law would have demanded the cargo be returned to its rightful owner. However, there was no law that said cargo illegally brought into Aaltah need be returned.

  Rhojal grinned at him, his eyes lighting with a combination of humor and cunning. “Bandits, eh? I presume the caravan was traveling through the Wasteland, having been denied entry to Aaltah?”

  “That is correct. The bandits must have heard that I’d denied the caravan entry and made a logical deduction as to what alternate route they would take.”

  “How fortuitous that your men were able to intercept them before they’d sold off their ill-gotten gains.”

  “Indeed. The caravan was not overlarge, but as the cargo consisted of spells that are not being made available to anyone else but Rhozinolm, it constitutes a major windfall.”

  “One that you are offering to share with Nandel.”

  “Oh, no,” Delnamal said and was rewarded by a glower. He allowed himself the span of a few heartbeats to enjoy Rhojal’s surge of anger. “I’m offering to turn the whole thing over to Nandel. As you said, there has been some significant strain lately, and I would very much like to smooth things over. In an unofficial capacity, of course.”

  Rhojal quickly regained his good humor, though he made a show of frowning. “We of Nandel haven’t much use for women’s magic,” he said with a curl of his lip. “While I’m sure these spells are considered valuable by some—”

  “You have my guarantee that you will find at least one of those spells more valuable than you imagine.” His soldiers had informed him that the shipment had contained hundreds of pebbles infused with the Women’s Well Trapper spell, which was strong enough to hide a building from view. Hell, Women’s Well had hidden damn near their whole town when Delnamal had foolishly sent a company of soldiers to attack what he’d expected to be easy prey.

  Besides, although Rhojal was spouting the official Nandel position on the usefulness of women’s magic, Delnamal was sure that everyone in the cursed place used women’s magic when it was convenient. Their Abbey might not produce spells or potions, but that didn’t mean the men of Nandel couldn’t get hold of them when they wanted to. The spark of greed in the ambassador’s eyes said he was much more interested in those spells than his words implied.

  “And of course,” Delnamal continued, “I must remind you that these are merely a gift. If Prince Waldmir finds them useful, then perhaps he can see his way to forgiving some of the unfortunate events that have come between us. If not, then we are no worse off.”

  Rhojal seemed to be thinking things over carefully, though Delnamal couldn’t imagine why. It was hard to extort anything extra from what was ostensibly a gift. But Delnamal decided to sweeten the deal—or at least plant a hint that the deal might be sweetened—anyway.

  “I hope that Nandel and Aaltah can become fast friends once more. It will be much to our advantage to work together when Seven Wells now has two women who fancy themselves sovereigns. The world will be in need of steady men who can counter their feminine hysterics and put them in their place when necessary. And perhaps in the future we can once again try for an alliance by marriage.” He beamed his best proud-father-to-be smile. “After all, I have a son on the way, and Prince Waldmir still has one unmarried daughter.”

  Waldmir’s youngest was four or five years old—Delnamal couldn’t remember exactly—but being both a Nandelite and illegitimate thanks to her mother’s disgrace and divorce, she would ordinarily be beneath the notice of a king. Certainly she would not be the most advantageous bride for Delnamal’s son, but any formal marriage agreement would be many years down the road. And hopes of that formal agreement could persuade Waldmir that he should favor Aaltah over Rhozinolm. Surely he’d rather see a grandson on the throne of Aaltah than a grandnephew on the throne of Rhozinolm. Neither Aaltah nor Rhozinolm would allow him to have both.

  Rhojal nodded thoughtfully. “You have given us a lot to think about. I will gladly accept your gift on behalf of my sovereign prince. And I will pass on your thoughts of where the future might lead us.”

  Delnamal looked forward to reporting the success of this endeavor to Lord Aldnor. The lord commander had been highly reluctant to order his troops to disguise themselves and ambush the caravan, blathering on about honor and Aaltah’s proud military tradition. His protestations had strayed dangerously close to outright refusal, and Delnamal had clearly seen that several of the other members of his council were similarly discomfited.

  In the end, the council had voted to approve the ambush. Aware that it had been closer than he would have liked, Delnamal had decided to make his offer to Rhojal without discussing it with the council first. If Rhojal had declined the offer, the secrecy of their meeting meant his council would never have to know the offer had been made at all. But now that Rhojal had agreed, Delnamal could report the results in triumph. And perhaps now the lord commander and his supporters would stop pining after the late king and finally give Delnamal the support and respect he was owed.

  * * *

  —

  The letter Lord Jailom presented to Alys was crudely written and rife with misspellings. She frowned at it.

  “The boy was in training to be a smith before he entered the Citadel,” Jailom explained. “I’ve arranged for those boys who need it to receive remedial lessons, but their reading and writing skills are a bit elementary at the moment.”

  Once she got past the atrocious handwriting and the misspellings, Alys realized that the content of the message was far worse than its form. It was all she could do to keep from cursing out loud.

  “There’s no question Delnamal was behind it,” Jailom said. “When he denied us use of the trade routes, he knew that we would travel through the Wasteland, and he set up that ambush along the route he knew our caravan would take.”

  “Of course he did,” Alys groaned, tossing the distasteful message onto her desk and leaning back in her chair. Thanks to Delnamal’s border patrol and his refusal to let anyone cross into Aaltah from Women’s Well, she had so far managed to make successful trades only with the principality of Grunir, and those only on the smallest of scales, for Grunir did not wish to incur Aaltah’s wrath. The only reason Queen Ellinsoltah had managed to coax her council into making an alliance was because of the unique magic Women’s Well could offer. If Women’s Well couldn’t deliver…

  “And of course he’ll deny that those were his men,” she muttered.

  Jailom nodded. “The caravan was not attacked within Aaltah’s borders, and he will naturally make the case that he is not responsible for it. Only those who want to believe him will do so, but…”

  “But no one is going to take up arms on our behalf over an accusation like this. And there are plenty of people who’d be all too happy to believe it anyway.”

  “Exactly.”

  It was easy enough to send small quantities of spells and potions to Rhozinolm via flier, but that hardly constituted a healthy trade relationship. She could, of course, send more soldiers to guard the next caravan. But unless she had enough chevals to shorten the journey, she couldn’t afford to send too many good fighting men away for a journey that would
last more than a month. Women’s Well had so few soldiers to start with that they had little chance of surviving an attack unless every one of them was on the battlefield. And though Delnamal had backed down once before, she feared sending more than a handful of soldiers away would be tempting fate.

  “Perhaps when next you speak to Queen Ellinsoltah,” Jailom said, “you might suggest trading along a naval route instead.”

  She nodded absently, although that would be no easy feat. Rhozinolm had an impressive navy thanks to its many hospitable harbors, but Women’s Well was land-bound. Perhaps Rhozinolm could send a ship to a port in Grunir, but that would require the cooperation of the Sovereign Prince of Grunir, who had so far been less than enthusiastic in his communications with Women’s Well.

  “I’ll talk to Ellinsoltah about it. Maybe we can find another way.” They would have to.

  “And the boy?” Jailom said, nodding toward the letter. “He is stranded in the Midlands. He cannot travel home through the Wasteland by himself with no mount, and I fear sending him through Aaltah might endanger his life. I doubt that so-called bandit-soldier of his was meant to leave any survivors.”

  “If we send him funds via flier,” she said, “can he purchase a cheval in the Midlands?”

  “It would be expensive,” Jailom warned, although she knew that. Because chevals required Aal, they were almost all produced in Aaltah, which meant any the boy could buy in the Midlands would be both imported and comparatively rare.

  She sighed heavily. “We need more chevals anyway, and I’m hardly going to leave your cadet stranded after all he’s been through.” Not to mention that she’d already lost two soldiers and a civilian driver in this doomed trade attempt, and she had no wish to lose another man, even if he was just a cadet. “Let’s send him the money and have him ride the cheval through the Wasteland. He won’t kick up a fuss about riding a cheval, will he?”

  Riding a cheval was considered unmanly, and there were some soldiers who would balk at such a thing, preferring their horses.