Daughter of Ashes (Rise of Aiqasal Book 1)

by Moira Katson

  She looked over wordlessly as Almeric settled into the alcove beside her.

  “I hear you have to drink it for it work.” He tried to smile, but the humor died quickly at the look on her face. “I just came to make sure you were well.”

  Guilt stabbed through her. “How long have you been looking?”

  “Not long.” He lied as easily as he had at the age of ten.

  She was better at seeing it now. She reached out to take his hand and smiled when his fingers squeezed around hers. “I didn’t intend to worry you.”

  She saw the corners of his mouth lift. He turned his head to look at her at last, and she could see the turmoil there. “Are you well, Alleyne?”

  She hesitated. She didn’t want to say this to him, but it needed to be said. “They wouldn’t be proud of us.” She saw the denial on his lips and shook her head. “You think I don’t remember them, but I do. I remember some things. I was old enough. Their faces get fainter in my mind, but I remember them. Papa always talked about honor. He wanted you to be just like him when you grew up.”

  Almeric had frozen. There was a suspicious sheen in his eyes.

  “Maman would say not to harbor any anger, wouldn’t she? She was always gentle. She wanted people to laugh. She would have wanted us to go live on a farm somewhere, or petition for clemency. She’d say…” Her throat closed. She remembered her parents in impressions, smiles, strong arms around her, but she couldn’t remember their words, just like she could no longer remember their faces.

  “She’d say that it didn’t matter if we were noble or commoner, as long as we walked in the sight of the gods and did good in the world, and found a place in our life for laughter.” Almeric had tipped his head back against the wall. He was gripping Alleyne’s hand like a drowning man. “She used to come out here, past the walls. It drove Papa mad with worry, but she always laughed and told him there was nothing to be frightened of.”

  “Why did you never tell me that?” She wanted so desperately to be able to picture it. Had her mother moved down these same streets, graceful and clothed in her gold-embroidered clothes? Did her spirit linger here? Had she, too, sought out the river at twilight?

  Almeric said nothing.

  Alleyne held onto his hand. It was not enough comfort, but it was all she had. “And Papa?” she asked after a time. “What would he say?”

  “He didn’t say much. It was all what he did. He would have you sent to bed without dinner for this plan.” He lifted his shoulders with a helpless laugh. “And he’d have had me beaten bloody for helping you, of course.”

  “He wouldn’t just beat you.”

  “Oh, yes, he would.” Almeric gave her a look. “D’you not remember? You were his favorite, his little jewel. It drove me crazy.”

  “No.” She was laughing despite herself. She needed to laugh.

  “Yes.” He jabbed her in the ribs. “He called you Nightingale, don’t you remember? For how you could sing. And he called me Dying Cat.”

  “You’re making that up!”

  But it was only funny until they remembered the why of it all, and their laughter died between one moment and the next. Almeric looked down at his hands, biting his lip. “You cried for them every night for months.”

  “I did not.” The words were vehement. “I never cried.” She remembered stuffing her hand in her mouth and biting down on it, using the pain to keep herself from crying. She remembered the clarity of one thought: crying wouldn’t bring them back.

  He met her eyes. “You cried after you fell asleep. Every night.”

  She had nothing to say to that.

  They sat in silence for a long time after that. Almeric drank her mug of beer with a grimace that said it was far from the best quality, and eventually pulled two cookies from his pocket. They were shaped like flowers, and pressed with slivered almonds on each of the sugared petals; her favorite, and a ridiculous extravagance. “You don’t have to do it,” he said finally. “We could leave tomorrow if we need. A few of the merchants have offered us work, you know that. There’s a barge leaving tomorrow.”

  Her heart leapt, and it took everything she had to thrust the feeling away.

  “I don’t want to … “ Her voice broke on the lie and she steadied herself. “I’m not going to leave.”

  He paused, the mug halfway to his lips.

  “Maman and Papa would be horrified,” Alleyne said finally. “Maman would tell us to forgive him, Papa would tell us to conquer the empire or leave it alone.”

  Almeric gave a snort of laughter, but he gestured for her to be quiet. Such words were treason, even in the din of a crowded tavern at night, even with the smell of date palm wine heavy in the air.

  “But I keep thinking … ” Alleyne took a deep breath. “They wouldn’t approve of this, but they’re not here. We are. They believed in all those things, and they’re dead now, and they only have us to recover their honor.” She couldn’t bring herself to look over at him. “And it’s like everyone’s forgotten what he did, how evil it was. He wanted to kill children, and not one person spoke up. That’s the court.”

  “We still don’t have to go back,” Almeric said softly. His words were almost lost in the din of the tavern, but she heard them. “No matter what we do, it won’t change what happened.”

  “Melisande.” Alleyne looked over at him.

  “Aunt Melisande?” His brow furrowed. “Is she still alive?”

  “She died when we were little, even I remember that. But she was Papa’s favorite sister, remember? I always liked her name. And I’ll need a new one, won’t I, if I’m going to court?”

  “No. Alleyne—”

  “Yes,” Alleyne said simply. “Someone has to do it. I’m not going to back down now because I’m scared. I’m not going to give up an opportunity like this. I’ve spent thirteen years dreaming of looking him in the eyes and telling him who I am. It doesn’t matter how I get there.”

  The words were hollow, and they both knew it. Almeric took her by the shoulders, his familiar gaze holding hers. “Alleyne. I’ve kept us safe all this time, haven’t I?”

  “Yes.” She could feel tears in her eyes. She didn’t even know half of what Almeric had done to shelter her. Her lip trembled now. “Thank you.”

  “There is no need to thank me.” He reached out to clasp her hand. His fingers were warm. “Without you, I don’t know … I don’t know what would have happened to me. We’ve only survived because of each other.”

  She nodded. She knew. Her whole world was Almeric—and their plan.

  “And I would never willingly lead you into danger.” He could not quite smile at that absurdity. “Well … more danger than we’d planned. This new plan, I know it frightens you. But it gives us a better chance.”

  She drew her strength from his gaze, nodded. Almeric made the plans. He had always made the plans. And he was right; she was jumping at shadows, nothing more. She tried for a smile. “So, I guess in five days, I’ll go to the Gate of Zuaba.” She began to laugh, this time in earnest: “This’ll all be a lot of fuss over nothing if I’m not chosen, though.”

  “Actually …” Almeric’s mouth quirked in a wry smile. He hesitated. “I had a thought.”

  Chapter Seven

  Baradun of Efktaros, lord of a small but strategically important plot of land north of the palace, was a man used to making do with what came to hand. Let the other nobles laugh behind their hands at him, a man of merchant stock, a man with so little land; he kept note of who laughed, and their ships paid far more to send goods upriver. As for the rest of the laughter, well, he was a noble whether they liked it or not, whether even he liked it or not.

  In certain quiet moments, he admitted to himself that the life of the court did not entirely suit him. He could have just as nice a house if he were a merchant, and he would not entertain such a steady stream of useless nobles. Still, things were what they were, and there was no use complaining about them. His family had become useful to the throne, and
had been generously rewarded, and he would continue their work.

  And so, while the other nobles dragged their heels complained about the Emperor’s edict that they cede the role of Empress Consort to farmers’ and smiths’ and bakers’ daughters, instead of their own, Baradun did not waste his time on such foolishness. When an Emperor wanted something, he got it. The nobles could protest all they wished, it would get them nowhere. If Baradun recognized any part of himself in the Emperor—though of course he would never presume to say out loud that he did—it was the equable smile that masked a stubborn heart. The Emperor tended to nod gravely and thank his advisors for their help, after which he did whatever he’d been planning to do all along, and let them gnash their teeth. It stood to reason that he’d do exactly the same thing now.

  It made a certain sense to Baradun, in any case. He was hardly a prize catch, himself, not only of common blood but also an aging widower with a son and a granddaughter to carry on his line, and even he was beginning to lose track of how many perfumed, exquisitely polite daughters of the court had been offered to him. Perhaps the Emperor had grown bored with them. Perhaps he longed for something simpler.

  In any case, the Emperor hardly had to explain himself to anyone. Otherwise, what was the point of being Emperor? He wanted a common-born bride. That was the end of it.

  That, and Baradun Efkataros was going to get him one. It had been an easy decision, and one the other nobles would have thought of themselves if they were not so busy bemoaning; as it was, he anticipated that his strategy would be copied a dozen times before the week was out.

  He, however, would be the first. He knew the value of that. Accordingly, he was venturing where the other nobles would never dare: beyond the third wall, into a place most nobles claimed was hardly a part of the city at all. The Emperor’s messenger, Lord Sirianos, was telling stories that grew wilder by the day about the mobs roaming this district, and the other nobles were duly horrified. Baradun, however, had not believed the stories. He was going to find a beautiful, reasonably polite commoner, and bring her back to the palace with him to present to the Emperor.

  Or … that had been the plan. The fact was that Sirianos might not have been far wrong. The people here beyond the Gate of Aiqasal were gazing at the palanquin in a very unfriendly way, and the captain of Baradun’s guard had taken to clearing his throat pointedly, as if wanting to suggest that they turn back.

  In truth, Baradun was considering it, himself. Without risk, there could be no gain, but if he died now, the point was moot.

  And then the palanquin turned to climb along the boulevard by the quays, and he saw her. She was dressed in a plain white gown and overtunic, a tiny gold ring at her nose and her hair fell in a waterfall of tiny braids over her shoulders. Warm brown skin, a delicate line to her jaw, mouth a touch too wide—

  It didn’t matter. None of that mattered. She stood with her shoulders back, her chin up. She stood like she was an empress.

  Only for a moment, and then she curtsied low to the palanquin, giving him his due as a noble. None of the other commoners here, he thought, had curtsied to him.

  “Stop.” He raised his voice.

  The palanquin jerked to a halt.

  “Sir, I cannot recommend—”

  Baradun waved a hand to shut the captain of his guard up. The girl was disappearing up a side street, walking slowly, her gown catching the dim light.

  “Miss! Miss!” He chased after her, awkward in his robes of state. He’d wanted to impress the people here, but he was making a mess of it—not to mention, he had no desire to know what the robes might be dragging through. “Miss.”

  She turned, and her eyes widened in surprise. “My lord?” She dropped at once into the curtsy, and held it.

  “How did you come by such manners?”

  She hesitated. Almost, he thought, she blushed. “I’ve studied the well-born ladies I see here.” Her head ducked even further. “I’d not presume to call myself their equal, my lord, I promise, but I see how they behave, so graceful and kind, and I thought—I apologize.”

  Beautiful manners, a willingness to learn, humility; she would be perfect. His habitual pragmatism began to fade. Was it truly possible that he had found the next Empress Consort of Aiqasal here today? “There is nothing to apologize for.” He drew a deep breath to steady himself, and tried to make his voice as a careless as he could. “Tell me … had you heard of the Emperor’s recent proclamation?”

  She hesitated. “Yes. It’s all anyone can talk about.” Still she held the curtsy, not even trembling.

  “Please, stand up.”

  “My lord.” Though she obeyed, she kept her eyes downcast.

  His brows rose. Her manners, though rough in some ways, were exquisite when one considered her surroundings. “Have you thought that you might present yourself in front of the Emperor?”

  “I … have.” It seemed the words were drawn from her despite great reluctance. Her hands twisted now, an unconscious gesture of nervousness. “I didn’t think it was quite proper, my lord—not that I would ever question the Emperor, my lord, please—”

  “Of course you would not,” he agreed. “Go on, my dear.”

  “But then I was at the temple.” The words came out in a rush. “And the priest was telling a story about the Empress Sele. He said she took a common-born husband, and the two of them ruled with such wisdom that they began a golden age. He said any citizen of Aiqasal might be worthy if they followed the gods. My lord, do you think that’s true?” She looked up at him now. Those eyes could be quite arresting if she learned to use them well, he thought dispassionately. In fact, they reminded him …

  The thought flitted away before he could remember it. No matter, she likely reminded him of some singing girl or other, one of the hundreds he’d watched traipse through the court with one eye on the noble who’d sponsored them and one eye on the Emperor, for all the good that did them.

  No, the Emperor was a good deal wiser than anyone gave him credit for—his uncle included. The man still hovered near the throne, worried that his impulsive nephew would do something rash. Of course, there had been that one incident …

  Best not to think about that. The woman was waiting for him to speak, in any case.

  “I think the Emperor is most wise,” Baradun said, as gravely as he could. “And it is my duty to serve him in all things. When I saw you, I knew at once that I must learn more. Now, perhaps, I think it is my duty to bring you to the palace, so that he might see you, himself.”

  Her eyes went wide. She looked almost terrified, the poor thing. “My lord?”

  “My dear, you attend the temples, do you not?”

  “Of course, my lord.”

  “You follow the gods, you wish to emulate the grace and kindness of the nobility, and you are reluctant to put yourself forward. I think it is in search of a woman like you that the Emperor made his edict.”

  She was staring at the ground once more. It took a moment before she looked up at him. “If my lord wishes to bring me to the palace, I will not question.”

  He wondered wryly if she feared that he would take liberties. She was quite safe from him—he and his wife had been happy enough, but his tastes had never run to women—but only time would show her that. Statements now to that effect would only frighten her. He considered. “Will you come with me now?” His hairdresser and seamstress might have a look at her that way, before the rest of the women arrived—and, more importantly, she could be coached. The Regent would want to see her, and unless Baradun missed his guess, he would want something quite different than Darion did. This woman must charm them both.

  “I … if that is what you wish.”

  “There is no one you need send word to?”

  “No, my lord. My sister is a priestess in the Temple of Alogo. She will not worry if she does not see me.”

  Alogo. Unfashionable at court; even those who wanted to show themselves as daring and dark chose Lycoris as their patron god, not Alog
o. They would not, he decided, mention her sister unless absolutely necessary. As a sole mark against her, however, it was a little enough thing. Unfashionable or not, Alogo was one of the four. “And your parents?” He offered her an arm, drawing her back to the palanquin.

  “My parents are no longer of this world.” There was no mistaking the grief in her voice.

  “My condolences.”

  “I thank you.”

  It was only when they sat in the palanquin, her gazing up at the rich silk hangings in away, that he thought to ask: “What is your name, child?”

  She looked back at him and gave a brilliant smile. It transformed her face so that he could not help but smile back.

  “I am Melisande,” she said sweetly, and he was struck by the sense that there was steel in her behind the sweetness, something not unlike the Emperor’s own stubbornness.

  Chapter Eight

  Alleyne tried to hold herself still as the carriage was waved through the Gate of Aiqasal. To crane to look out the window, and at nothing more than the city proper, would be undignified—and dignity would be her byword from now on. She and Almeric had decided that as she practiced her curtsies. She would be the very picture of decorum, never putting herself forward, always stepping back to draw Darion on.

  And when he came to her at last, desperate to know more …

  To think of that now was unwise. She knew well how to hide her thoughts, but it was best not to have anything to hide at all, and in any case, this was her first chance to learn more about the lord who had fallen into Almeric’s trap.

  Alleyne laid her fingertips on the sill of the palanquin’s carved window and felt her heart racing, no matter how she tried to calm herself. She wanted to be done with it now, not waiting in silk gowns for her prey to come to her; everything seemed topsy-turvy. This would be strange enough if she sat here in her usual tunic and pants, hair in its usual braid of braids; as it was, her body did not even feel as if it belonged to her. She could feel the breeze on her bare arms and the soft weight of the dress, and her the hair fell free over her shoulders.