by Amy Raby
“I also came to . . . well, to clear the air between us.” He shifted in his chair. “I’m sorry for any pain I caused when I concealed the fact that I was the Crown Prince of Mosar. Out of necessity, I dodged questions and withheld information about my family and upbringing. But there’s no longer any need for secrecy. If you’d like, I can answer those questions now.” He smiled hopefully.
Rhianne sighed. He wanted to reconcile with her, for what purpose she wasn’t certain. To assuage a guilty conscience? Because he wanted something else from her, maybe at the negotiations? Or did he want to resume their love affair? “I’m not interested.”
His smile faded. “The name Janto is real,” he said, apparently determined to talk about himself anyway. “It’s a common Mosari name, the one my mother gave me, and the one my friends and family use. At the age of fourteen, when I achieved soulcasting, I was granted the zo name Jan-Torres. It’s formal—more a title than a name.”
That was actually surprising, and something of a relief, since she’d thought the name Janto was a fake. But she kept her mouth shut. She didn’t want to encourage him.
He soldiered on gamely. “Most of the things I told you in the garden were true. Obviously I’ve never been a scribe. But I was a language scholar, and I do speak five languages. It was part of my education as a prince, but I showed a natural aptitude, and beyond that, I was just really interested in languages. My brother, Kal-Torres, was the rough-and-tumble type, always wanting to wrestle or run a race or practice swordplay, and I always had my nose stuck in a book. I came here not because I was a trained spy—I wasn’t—but because I was a shroud mage and my nation was desperate. I was in charge of Mosari Intelligence, but I’d had the post for only a short while and I had no field experience, so to avoid getting in trouble I stuck as much to the truth as I could. Most of what you know about me is genuine.”
He paused. Rhianne eyed the ferret sitting in his lap. “Why are you a shroud mage rather than a war mage?”
Janto’s eyes lit. “You’re right to wonder. I was meant to be a war mage. It’s traditional. The Mosari king’s first son is always a war mage, and his second son a sea mage. If there’s a third son, he’s another war mage, and so on. In the zo crèche, they had an albino brindlecat waiting for me. Albinos are rare, and they save them for the royal family. I was visiting the crèche regularly, feeding my intended brindlecat and getting to know her, and then something happened. Are you familiar with the problems we have regarding ferrets and soulcasting?”
Rhianne shook her head.
He stroked Sashi absently. “Ferrets are . . . difficult animals. They refuse the soulcasting bond nineteen times out of twenty. That success rate is just too low, after putting a candidate through all the training and bonding work, and then you end up having to start over with a different animal, and the candidate is set back a year or two. That’s why we have so few shroud mages. Nowadays we don’t even attempt to bond someone with a ferret unless the ferret shows a natural affinity for the candidate. We keep ferrets in the zo crèche and essentially wait for them to choose someone. Which a lot of them never do.”
“Are you saying Sashi chose you?”
“He did,” said Janto. “I walked past his cage several times a day, every day, to visit my brindlecat. And Sashi literally flung himself at the bars of his cage, trying to get at me. It created a dilemma, because the albino brindlecat had been set aside for me, and for me to become a shroud mage instead of a war mage violated tradition. But we have this concept in Mosar of quanrok. There’s no Kjallan translation. It means, more or less, gods decide. We feel that sometimes the gods make decisions for us through familiars. My father and mother and some of the zo handlers and I came to an agreement that the gods had made a decision on my behalf. They wanted me to take Sashi as my familiar, not the brindlecat, and so I did. And I became a shroud mage.”
His story raised half a dozen questions, about quanrok and this concept of an animal refusing the bond, but Rhianne kept them to herself.
“Any other questions?” asked Janto.
She shook her head.
Janto rose from his chair and took her hands, encouraging her to rise.
She stood, with some reluctance, since clearly he was up to something. He was being kind and, she had to admit, a little bit charming. But gods curse him, he was still her enemy. Her jailer.
“There’s one last thing I want to talk to you about before the negotiations begin this afternoon,” said Janto. “Before I head home to Mosar.”
“What?” There went the butterflies in her stomach again.
“I know this is the worst possible time I could be doing this. But please understand, there is no other time. In a couple of days, I’ll be gone, and once I go—”
“Doing what?” she demanded.
He swallowed. “Rhianne, since the moment I laid eyes on you in the Imperial Garden, I’ve been enraptured by your beauty. At the time, I was blinded by my prejudice toward Kjallans. But as I grew to know you better—”
“Janto, no!” Oh gods, he was proposing.
Twin lines of worry appeared in his forehead. “Let me finish before you make your decision. As I grew to know you better, I witnessed your bravery and your compassion for people from all walks of life. When I saw firsthand the steadfastness of your heart, my feelings grew from admiration to love. I would be honored if you would consent to marry me and rule by my side as the queen of Mosar.”
She pulled her hands away. “I can’t marry you!”
Janto, looking more sad than surprised, moved his hands awkwardly to his sides. “What is your objection?”
“You lied to me! You betrayed me!” Her hands shook. Her voice shook. What was wrong with her? This should be easy, telling him to go home to Mosar. “You took my riftstone and locked me up like a prisoner.” Gods, the tears were starting. She brushed them away.
“I thought you knew why I had to do those things,” said Janto. “You have the biggest heart of any woman I’ve ever known. Can you not find room in that heart to forgive, to understand my circumstances?”
Rhianne choked on sobs. “Just go.”
“It would be good for our nations! Both yours and mine. It would promote peace between them. If you won’t accept me for my own sake, would you accept me for the sake of Kjall and Mosar?”
Fury rose like bile in her throat. “Is that why you asked? Because it would be good for Mosar?”
He lowered his brows. “You know why I asked.”
She shook her head.
Janto turned. “I’ll see you at the negotiating table.”
38
Janto arrived a little early for the council meeting, with Kal-Torres and a clerk in tow. He’d chosen a Kjallan council room for the negotiations, well-appointed but small, with an oval-shaped table in the center. Admiral Llinos and his adviser were already present.
Llinos clasped wrists with Janto and began to regale him with the tale of his battle in the harbor with the Kjallan ship Relentless. Janto sat down to listen, while Sashi climbed to the top of Janto’s chair to nap and Gishi perched on the top of Kal’s chair.
Admiral Durgan entered and took his seat. Janto nodded at Durgan and received a nod in return.
“We lost the foremast over the port bow—,” Llinos was saying.
“Starboard,” corrected his adviser.
“You were not on board, Eurig.”
As Llinos’s tale continued, Rhianne entered the room, escorted by a contingent of guards, and sat at the far end of the table. Janto stole glances at her, each one sending a shiver of yearning down his spine. Her expression was neutral, but a tremor in her hands betrayed her nervousness. He wanted to go and speak to her, but there was nothing left to say. She couldn’t forgive him, and she didn’t love him anymore.
“We knew it was unrecoverable, so we had to cut it free . . . ,” said Llinos.
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While Janto listened, increasingly impatient with the tale, Kal-Torres rose and crossed the room. He leaned casually against the table next to Rhianne, with his back to Janto, and apparently began speaking since Rhianne sat up alertly in response. Janto couldn’t hear their voices from where he sat—Llinos was loud—but he watched out of the corner of his eye. Rhianne’s back was very straight. She smiled, looking friendly but reserved. Kal picked up her hand and kissed it.
Janto tore his eyes away, fuming. Classic Kal. He’d figured out that Janto wanted this woman and was interested in her for more than political reasons, so now he was moving on her. He would steal her if he could, for no reason at all except to demonstrate that he could. Kal turned and smirked at Janto, confirming his intentions.
Llinos talked on, oblivious. “So then we had a loose cannon. You know what a disaster that is? If you don’t rope it and catch it fast, it causes all kinds of damage. . . .”
Janto nodded distractedly.
A change in the body language at the far end of the table alerted him that something had happened. Rhianne snapped angrily at Kal, who recoiled from her.
Inside, Janto exulted. If he couldn’t have her, at least Kal wouldn’t either.
The guards arrived with Lucien, a welcome distraction for all parties. Kal came forward to greet Lucien.
“And then they struck their colors,” finished Llinos. “Was it not a very fine action?”
“Very fine, indeed,” said Janto.
The guards shut the door, sealing them in. Lucien limped to his chair, haughty and scornful. He took Rhianne’s hand in a show of Kjallan solidarity. They leaned close and spoke in whispers.
Janto cleared his throat and began in diplomatic Kjallan. “Thank you all for coming. I’ll begin with introductions—”
“King Jan-Torres,” interrupted Lucien, “I object to the presence of that one.” He pointed at the Riorcan. “He is a criminal, and he sullies these proceedings. Imperial Kjall will not negotiate with him.”
“You gods-cursed tyrant,” fumed Admiral Durgan. “You are the criminal!”
“Silence, both of you!” cried Janto. “Emperor Lucien, you are in no position to dictate who sits at this table. Admiral Durgan’s men fought bravely and have earned their place here. If you cannot accept their presence, someone else will negotiate for Kjall.”
Lucien subsided, grumbling, and Janto introduced the members of each delegation. “Our time is limited, so we’ll get right to it. Our first order of business is to decide the fate of the former emperor Florian Nigellus Gavros. Bring him in, please.” He gestured to the door guards.
Four men escorted a flint-eyed Florian into the room and took up positions around him. Lucien and Rhianne, who had not seen the former emperor since before the invasion, turned and stared.
“Florian Nigellus Gavros,” Jantos began, “you have waged unprovoked war against Mosar, Riorca, and Sardos and committed numerous war crimes detailed in this list”—he held up an inked document—“including refusal to honor a Sage flag and the indiscriminate murder and enslavement of Mosari and Riorcan civilians.” He repeated the words in Sardossian. “Do you have anything to say in your defense?”
Florian’s eyes bored into Janto. “You will die for this.”
Janto ignored that. “Admiral Llinos, has Sardos reached a decision?”
Llinos conferred with his adviser. “Yes, Your Majesty. We recommend the former emperor be exiled for life and kept under guard in Sardos or Mosar.”
Janto nodded. “Admiral Durgan, Riorca’s decision?”
“Death,” said Durgan. “Former Emperor Florian is responsible for the murder and enslavement of tens of thousands of people. Exile is too lenient. If he is not executed, how can we be certain he will not someday return to power?”
That left Janto in the role of tiebreaker. He stole a glance at Rhianne, who watched Florian, wringing her hands in anguish.
He exchanged glances with Kal, who nodded. They’d discussed the matter at length already. “Exile. While Admiral Durgan speaks with honesty and passion about the severity of Florian’s crimes, let this gesture of mercy demonstrate our willingness to forge a lasting peace. Since Mosar has been more injured than Sardos by Florian’s actions, I propose we house him on Mosar, guarded by my own men.”
“Sardos concurs,” rumbled Llinos.
Admiral Durgan said nothing. His eyes smoldered.
Janto turned to Lucien. “He will be well looked after.”
“Thank you,” said Lucien. Rhianne stared down at her lap, her shoulders shaking. She seemed to be silently crying.
He nodded at Florian’s guards. “Take him back to his room.”
“You will die for this,” said Florian over his shoulder, as the guards hauled him up and escorted him out. The door shut behind him.
“On that note,” said Janto, eliciting a chuckle from his fellows, “let’s discuss the removal of Kjallan troops from Mosar.”
As Janto had expected, Lucien, denied any further opportunity to break up the alliance and turn his enemies against one another, agreed to peacefully withdraw his troops and ships from Mosar. He was going to lose the island anyway. This way he could keep his four desperately needed ships and spin it as a strategic withdrawal instead of suffering another humiliating defeat.
Janto and Llinos then began negotiating trade agreements with Lucien, who bargained with them in good faith while denying every request from Admiral Durgan.
To Janto’s surprise, Rhianne, whom he’d expected to be a silent observer, spoke up often. Since Florian had never involved her in matters of state, her knowledge was limited. She was careful not to display her ignorance, but she intervened when discussions became too heated. She had a knack for smoothing ruffled egos and speaking sense in simple terms that couldn’t be denied. It made Janto desire her all the more, not just as a lover, but as a diplomatic asset for Mosar. Three gods, Florian, you’ve wasted this woman.
However, Rhianne never spoke up for the Riorcans. Janto understood her reasons. Lucien would not survive as emperor if he appeared weak. To give the impression of strength after Kjall’s crushing losses, Lucien had to take a hard line somewhere, and Riorca, the only country accessible to him by land, was his unlucky target. Admiral Durgan grew furious as the negotiations proceeded, and Janto felt bad for Riorca, but there wasn’t much he could do.
By suppertime, they’d hashed out most of the important points. The delegations were growing tired and irritable, so he dismissed the group until morning.
The next day, when they reconvened, they worked out some sticky points regarding the use of the Kjallan-controlled Neruna Strait. After that, Janto proposed some changes in the treatment of Riorcan slaves, which Lucien firmly shot down. Admiral Durgan barely paid attention. He seemed to view the negotiations as a farce.
“Are we finished?” Janto turned to his clerk. “Cialo, when will you have a document ready for signing?”
Cialo lifted his head from the paper. “Very soon, sire. I’m copying the final passages.”
“There is one more matter to discuss,” said Admiral Llinos.
“Speak,” said Janto.
Llinos turned to Lucien and Rhianne. “Kjall has long been an insular nation, rarely if ever marrying its women outside its own borders.”
Rhianne’s eyes narrowed. Lucien took her hand protectively and glared at Llinos.
“My delegation believes, as does the Mosari delegation, that this practice contributes to Kjall’s culture of war, and that if the Imperial Princess Rhianne were to marry outside the empire, that gesture would further peace among our nations.”
“Admiral Llinos, you are out of line,” said Lucien. “It is not your business whom the princess marries.”
“With respect, Emperor, you do not have a vote at this council,” said Llinos. “Now, the Sardossian First Heir has express
ed a desire to wed the Kjallan Imperial Princess—”
“The First Heir has fourteen wives already,” said Lucien. “It is an insult to suggest that the Kjallan Imperial Princess, the highest-ranking woman in Kjall, should be one of fifteen.”
“By our laws, she would be his First Wife and thus of superior rank to any of them,” said Llinos in a tone of practiced patience that suggested he’d explained this to ignorant foreigners before. “Rhianne’s firstborn son would thus be First Heir to the First Heir.”
Janto struggled to hide his annoyance. If he survives to adulthood. Ranking sons in Sardossian hive-families had a high mortality rate.
“However,” added Llinos, “since Mosar has suffered the most in this recent war, I move that she instead be married to King Jan-Torres.”
Everyone turned and looked expectantly at Janto. He opened his mouth as if to say something and closed it again. Rhianne folded her arms and glared at him.
“I second,” announced Admiral Durgan. “Let the princess be married to the king of Mosar.” He smiled. “That’s a majority, Jan-Torres. We don’t even need your vote!”
The delegates chuckled. Rhianne stared down at her lap, but he knew she was fuming. Lucien showed no emotion, not yet. He was waiting for Janto’s response.
Which was going to be . . . what?
He’d planned to vote against the arranged marriage, in accordance with Rhianne’s wishes. But he hadn’t expected to be outvoted before he even opened his mouth. Both Sardos and Riorca wanted the marriage to take place. Durgan was probably trying to cause mischief with the Kjallans, but Llinos’s vote was sincere. Could Janto throw his hands in the air and say it wasn’t his fault? He was outvoted.
No. Rhianne wasn’t going to accept that explanation.
She’d made a mistake when she’d turned him down. He was certain of it. She felt she didn’t know him and couldn’t trust him, but the man she’d fallen in love with, whom she’d trusted implicitly and offered her body to, was the real Janto. In time, given half a chance, he would prove that to her. A marriage would give him that time, that chance. Otherwise he would sail home to Mosar, and they might never see each other again. Should he not correct her mistake?