Queen of the Unwanted

by Jenna Glass

  She was, in fact, certain he would catch the trailing edges. Unlike the spell used to kill Lord Tamzin, this one would be targeted by direction rather than toward a named individual. The greatest effect would be on the seeds in the coffer, but the prisoner would feel its stirring as well.

  She pointed at the coffer, directing the spell toward it. “Watch, and imagine what it would feel like if all of this were happening inside your body.”

  Sweat glistened on the prisoner’s forehead as he stared at the coffer, and he made another soft whimpering sound as if in pain. Alys took that as a good sign, for the spell started slowly, and he could not possibly be feeling the effects yet. Silently, she prayed that this demonstration would be exactly as convincing as she hoped, because she wasn’t sure if she had the necessary cruelty to direct it at a living, breathing human being.

  “It’s nothing dramatic, at first,” she said. “It takes a moment before the seeds’ outer shells burst and they start germinating. And, of course, even once they start to grow, there is some resistance. Less when they’re growing in flesh than in stone, but still…They will take up every spare bit of space that exists, folding over on themselves and pushing outward.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the prisoner wince. His hands squeezed together so tightly she thought he might break his own fingers, and then he gasped. His hands flew from around his knees to around his gut.

  “As I said, you’re only getting the very fringes of the spell. Whatever seeds you have in your stomach may sprout, and I doubt that will be a comfortable experience, but they will not grow as the ones in the coffer will.”

  “Please stop,” he whispered, shivering.

  She turned to him, reminding herself what he had tried to do to Shelvon. He was not deserving of any pity, and the spell would not do him any lasting damage beyond some lingering digestive distress.

  “I can’t stop the spell once it’s begun,” she lied. “You’ll just have to ride it out.”

  The lock on the coffer made a faint scraping sound as the lid was pushed outward by the raging growth within. Behind her, she heard the shuffling of feet and the occasional clearing of a throat as the guardsmen reacted to what they were seeing. Alys realized she should have warned them all in advance what she was planning, but it was too late now.

  The lock groaned and creaked more dramatically, straining to contain its contents as they, in turn, strained to escape. The prisoner continued to whimper, and his eyes were squeezed shut.

  “Open your eyes!” she commanded harshly, trying to cover her own discomfort. It wouldn’t do to let him know how sickening she found the prospect of inflicting this spell on a human being.

  The prisoner’s eyes remained glued shut as he shook his head back and forth in denial. Then, there was a loud, explosive crack, which made everyone in the room—even Alys, who was expecting it—jump. The prisoner opened his eyes almost against his will as the stone lid fell away and a teeming mass of greenery boiled forth from the coffer.

  “Imagine that happening within your own belly,” Alys said, and despite her best efforts, there was a faint quaver in her voice. Not that the prisoner was likely to notice as he gaped in horror—and then turned his head to the side and vomited profusely.

  Eventually, she opened her Mindseye once more and removed the mote of Rho from her ring, stopping the spell’s progress. The prisoner continued to retch helplessly, and behind her, she heard a great deal of swallowing and throat clearing. She would have to remember to apologize to her men later for putting them through this without warning.

  “What did you intend to do with Lady Shelvon?” she asked. “And who hired you? Answer those two questions honestly and fully, and you will suffer the effects of this spell in your imagination only.”

  The prisoner spat, and Alys’s own stomach lurched in revulsion as she caught a whiff of foulness and saw the flecks and stains in his already unkempt beard. He was drenched in sweat and shaking, and he looked at her with such horror that she almost lost her resolve. Never before had anyone feared her, and though her half-brother might enjoy being feared, she herself did not.

  “I was to take her—unharmed—to Nandel,” the prisoner gasped out, all his fight gone.

  Alys had suspected that was the case, though she hadn’t wanted to mention the possibility for fear of influencing the prisoner’s answers. “And who hired you to take her there?”

  He stared at the floor, his shoulders hunched. “I can’t say for sure. The man who gave me the money and the mission was obviously an intermediary.”

  She huffed with impatience. “Where were you hired? And who was this intermediary?”

  “I was in Aalwell,” he said, “at a tavern in the Harbor District.”

  Alys raised an eyebrow. “Not in Nandel, then?” she asked, though she couldn’t imagine what a man such as he would be doing in the Principality of Nandel. Though she supposed it would have made no sense for Waldmir to hire a Nandelite to kidnap his daughter. Alys could count the number of fair-skinned blonds in Women’s Well on one hand, and of those, only Shelvon was very obviously a full-blooded Nandelite. A Nandelite mercenary would have called far too much attention to himself.

  The prisoner shook his head. “No. In Aalwell. And I don’t know exactly who the intermediary was. Only that he was a soldier. I’d never spoken to him before, but I’d seen him on the street before when he was traveling to and from the Citadel. He wasn’t in uniform when he hired me, but I recognized him.”

  A soldier. On the streets of Aalwell. Hired to take Shelvon to Nandel. There could be only one man behind such a scheme.

  “You were hired through an intermediary by King Delnamal,” she said flatly.

  And the mercenary, still pale and shaking, did not demur.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  “Are you sure?” Ellin asked her lord chancellor as her heart sank and her shoulders slumped.

  Sitting across the desk from her in her private study, Lord Semsulin nodded. “I am sure the information is accurate,” he said. “There is no question in my mind that Aaltah is aggressively courting Prince Waldmir, but that is hardly a surprise. Aaltah is as dependent on Nandel for iron and gems as we are, and now that we’ve made ourselves their enemy, it seems only logical that they would do everything in their power to persuade Prince Waldmir to trade only with them.”

  She shook her head. “So much for the prince’s great outrage when Delnamal divorced his daughter and condemned her as a traitor.”

  “Oh, you were under the impression that he is a beacon of paternal love?” Semsulin needled with his customary—and often highly annoying—sarcasm. Once upon a time, Ellin had hated him for it, but it seemed she was growing accustomed to his abrasive manners.

  “I thought he might at least make a show of it.”

  “I’m sure he does, when it suits him. But he is once again being offered the possibility of making one of his daughters the Queen of Aaltah, and it seems that Lord Kailindar was correct when he speculated that Waldmir is not overly fond of his nephew.”

  It took everything Ellin had to hold her tongue. She very much disliked keeping secrets from her lord chancellor, but she meant to honor her promise to Zarsha. Prince Waldmir might pretend he was interested in a possible future match between King Delnamal’s as-yet-unborn son and his own young “daughter,” but Ellin was certain he would not pin his hopes on a child whom he suspected was not his. But she could not say that.

  “Just because he’s talking with Delnamal doesn’t mean he’s actually going to commit,” she argued instead. “Delnamal’s son isn’t even born yet. Waldmir can form a blood alliance with Rhozinolm through my marriage with Zarsha within the year, and that offers far more certainty than a potential match between a toddler and an unborn child.”

  “True,” Semsulin agreed. “I believe, as you and Zarsha do, that Waldmir is mer
ely angling for the most advantageous arrangement for himself and for Nandel. He sees both you and Delnamal as desperate supplicants, vying for his affection, and that allows him to play you off each other at will. I’ve heard there was an attempt to kidnap Lady Shelvon from Women’s Well. The mercenary who attempted it admitted being hired by Delnamal, and his mission was to take Shelvon back to Nandel—a move I am certain Delnamal would not have made had he not been trying so hard to curry favor with Waldmir.

  “In any case, Waldmir is making it look like the marriage—and therefore the renewal of the trade agreements—is far from certain. I need not tell you the potential consequences if this uncertainty goes on for too long.”

  She grimaced, knowing Semsulin was right. She had reduced Kailindar’s threat as a potential rival when she’d arranged for Kailee’s marriage. But—as both Semsulin and Zarsha reminded her all too often—reducing the threat was not the same as eliminating it. Those trade agreements were the key to securing her throne, and the more doubt crept in, the weaker her position would become.

  “You may need to begin entertaining other proposals,” Semsulin said gently. “Unless you have changed your mind about Lord Kailindar. We could always arrange to ‘discover’ new evidence linking him to Lord Creethan’s assassination attempt.”

  “You know I won’t do that,” she said. “But you also know all the reasons why Waldmir is unlikely to refuse the marriage arrangement in the end, so I don’t see—”

  “Yes, you do see,” Semsulin interrupted, which was an unmistakable breach of protocol. “Your mind is too sharp for this pretense, Your Majesty. You are attempting to negotiate from a position of perceived desperation, and you will never get an advantageous deal that way. As long as Prince Waldmir believes you will do anything to make the marriage to Zarsha happen, then he will toy with you and play you and Delnamal off each other. You must give him reason to think it possible you’ll marry someone else.”

  If she weren’t feeling so agitated, Ellin might have laughed. Not that long ago, she was desperate to avoid a marriage to Zarsha! Now the thought of having another man court her was nearly enough to send her into a panic.

  “I’m not saying you have to do it,” Semsulin reminded her. “I’m just saying you have to seem open to the possibility.”

  Ellin noticed her fingers were drumming restlessly on the desk before her, her nails making a tap, tap, tap that was likely grating on Semsulin’s nerves. She might have kept doing it, save that it grated on her own as well once she noticed it. She stilled the tapping by folding her hands together, forcing herself to think more and feel less.

  Semsulin was an excellent adviser. He understood court intrigue better than anyone she had ever met. More importantly, he understood and respected her. He could have brought this information—and his advice—up during a council meeting, thereby nearly forcing her hand. But he had brought it to her in private, leaving the choice up to her. The last time she’d ignored his advice, she’d almost been killed. She did not regret the decision—she intended to be the sovereign and protector of all her people, not just the rich and powerful—but ignoring it this time seemed foolhardy.

  “I can make a few ‘discreet’ inquiries,” Semsulin said. “Nothing overt, but enough to cause a little speculation. Which you can categorically deny, of course, but such rumors have a way of taking on a life of their own.”

  Ellin sighed. “You are not my lord chancellor,” she grumbled. “You are my lord high rumormonger.”

  Semsulin cracked a rare smile. “My rumormongering skills have worked to your advantage before.”

  “Until they didn’t.” She remembered the terrible sinking feeling when Tamzin had taken the rumor of their potential engagement, which Semsulin had started on her behalf, and twisted it into a weapon to use against her.

  Semsulin acknowledged her words with a half shrug. “There is a risk to every strategy. However, you have to see that it is to your advantage to plant at least a small seed of doubt in Prince Waldmir’s mind. If he sees any chance that he might lose his opportunity to have his kin reign as king in Rhozinolm, he might decide to stop playing hard to get.”

  Ellin cocked her head at Semsulin. “So you don’t think he wants his daughter to marry Delnamal’s son instead?”

  “As you said, such a marriage would be many years down the road, and there are many ways an agreement could go sour between now and then. Especially when King Delnamal has shown himself to be so erratic and impulsive. But fear makes fools of many men, and the council might take the possibility more seriously than they ought.”

  Ellin grimaced. “Then I’m sure they’ll be overjoyed at the news that I’m entertaining other proposals. They will think I’m giving up on the trade agreements.”

  “It’s a risk we must take,” Semsulin said. He regarded her with a sudden and obvious caution. “But we can mitigate the risk if you let me make the suggestion and explain the reasoning.”

  “You mean that if a man makes the suggestion, the council will see it as a clever negotiating tactic, whereas if I do, it will be seen as a sign of fear.” She challenged him with a scowl, but he merely shrugged.

  “The world is as it is. I am one of your assets, and you should use me accordingly.”

  It would not be the first time she had allowed Semsulin to speak for her, though ordinarily she did so—on his advice—when presenting ideas that were likely to be unpopular, so that he might draw the council’s ire away from her.

  “I hope that someday I will have won enough respect to risk weathering a storm without having to use a proxy,” she muttered.

  Semsulin inclined his head. “I hope that, too. But until then, you have me.”

  * * *

  —

  It took a long and miserable three days for Mairah to reach the bridge that crossed over the Endless River into Aaltah. Even on foot, the journey should have taken her half that time, but thanks to the patrols that regularly scoured the roads, she had to spend all the hours of daylight in hiding, for the Trapper spell could not hide the dust her feet kicked up when she walked. Even at night she frequently had to leave the road to avoid being trampled. Her feet ached, her stomach howled, and her mouth was parched as the influence of the Women’s Well faded.

  For the first few miles after she’d left the borders of Women’s Well proper, the earth was still ripe with burgeoning life, although from what she had heard the land in this area had been lifeless desert before the Well had sprung up from nowhere. But the farther she traveled, the thinner the elements in the air, and the less life the earth supported, until the road became but a dusty track and the greenery turned to nothing but patches of dry and brittle grass.

  In her hurry to escape Women’s Well, Mairah had brought neither food nor water with her—an oversight for which she roundly cursed herself. But she had never traveled on foot before—truth be told, she had never traveled much by coach, either—and had little concept how long it might take to get from one town to another.

  When she saw the first telltale signs of a town in the distance, she quickly—though reluctantly—stripped out of her dress and put on her wrinkled, dusty red robes. The sun was just beginning to rise, and if she were to stick to her plan as strictly as she ought, she would wait out the day in hiding and enter town after sundown, but she was too hungry and thirsty to bear the thought of another torturous day of deprivation.

  She hated the very feel of the coarse fabric against her skin, of the smothering wimple that scratched at her scalp and trapped sweat at the nape of her neck. She was reminded of the dreadful day when she’d first entered the Abbey. Although she had known what she was getting herself into, it had still come as a shock how dehumanizing it had felt to lay her fine, fashionable clothing aside and change into the red robes of an Unwanted Woman. She’d felt instantly dirty and diminished, and she’d humiliated herself by crying.

 
She would not do that this time, though her heart ached and her eyes burned. It was not courage that kept the tears at bay—it was dehydration. She hated to think what her face must look like with layers of sunburn and road dust caking her already unsightly pockmarks.

  Reminding herself that she was the Abbess of Khalpar—and that Norah would pay dearly for her betrayal—Mairah straightened her spine and continued down the dirt track toward the bridge.

  She was not surprised to see that the road was barricaded just short of the bridge, and that the barricade was manned by a half-dozen soldiers. Nor was she entirely surprised to see that there was a small building that looked like it might be a hastily constructed barracks on the other side, with another handful of soldiers gathered casually in the doorway. From what she had heard, Aaltah’s border patrol made it as unpleasant as possible for people to cross in either direction.

  All eyes were on Mairah as she trudged closer, and the soldiers who’d been lounging by the barracks house made their way over the bridge for a closer look. She suspected that men posted out here on the very fringes of the Kingdom of Aaltah were excited by the sight of a woman in red robes heading their way, for they were a long way from the Abbey of Aaltah, and the tiny town in which they were stationed seemed unlikely to have a brothel they could patronize. Beneath the heavy robes, and despite the already scorching heat of the early-morning sun, a chill shivered through her at the predatory way in which those men regarded her.

  I am the Abbess of Khalpar, she reminded herself, holding her head up a little higher. They would not dare…

  But she found herself unconvinced, for an abbess was generally just an old, used-up whore, and there was little chance the soldiers would hold any respect for her rank. This, she thought with a hint of irony, was one of the few times when her disfigured face might actually work to her advantage.