Daughter of Ashes (Rise of Aiqasal Book 1)

by Moira Katson

  She would not be frightened. Her fingers clenched. “Let them say what they will.”

  “Are you certain?” Baradun’s eyes were hard; she had never seen him like this before. “For they will never stop. If you are chosen despite them, they will say such things behind their hands forever. When you have the crown, you will not be safe. They will be pushing their daughters into Darion’s arms to get bastard children from him. They will do all they can to have him set you aside.”

  “What would you have me say?” Her voice rose. I care for nothing as long as I am given my chance to kill him—then you can all enjoy the ashes of the court you love so much.

  “I would have you say that you know the risks!” He stood, eyes blazing. “You are not the woman you claim, even I can see that.”

  She went cold. Had Margery whispered the truth to Baradun?

  But it was not that. “You would have me believe you are without ambition, without anger.” Baradun’s eyes narrowed. “But what will you do when they try to wrest the crown from your child? What will you do when they bribe priests to issue false prophecies, when the Regent turns on you? You must know he has no love for Darion’s plan, for all he pretends to make much of you.”

  I know better than you do. I know he wants me dead. “What will I do? Nothing. D’you think they can do worse to me than the years beyond the wall?”

  “Yes,” Baradun told her brutally. “You will not have the life that I have. I have never made it my goal to rise too high. I entertain them with fine wines and arrange deals that enrich them, but I did not try to marry my son to the foremost families of the realm and so I am tolerated. You will not be—you will be on the throne.”

  “Then send me back and be done with it if you believe it cannot be done!” She flung the words at him. “Just … let me say farewell to Darion.”

  Baradun sat back in his seat. His eyes were fixed on her face. “You know, I might almost tell him that. I might tell him I am bowing to their wishes and sending you away. But, you … you have a lesson you have not yet learned.”

  Alleyne’s hands clenched, and she fought the urge to turn and walk away. A test. This had been a test of some sort, and she had failed. She resolved not to listen, but his words made a liar of her at once.

  “Did you not wonder why they have united against you?” Baradun asked quietly.

  She looked up at him, much struck.

  His smile was wry. “Twenty women were allowed in from the city and the countryside. There were hundreds who presented themselves; twenty were given access. They are housed in a wing of the palace, alone. Darion was to visit them; he has not.”

  “And?”

  “And there are a dozen or more brought here by the nobility. They are dressed in silks and jewels. Maids have been bribed to carry stories of their beauty to anyone who might listen. They are said to be obedient, pious, educated. Darion was to visit them as well.” He waited.

  Get on with it. “And?” Alleyne asked, full of mock courtesy.

  “And he says that he will accede to the court’s wishes for an introduction, and meet them all on the Day of Elius.”

  “And so I remain the only one he has seen,” Alleyne said softly. She felt panic beginning to rise up. She had never expected to be chosen; she had never wanted to be chosen. All she had wanted was a bored Emperor and a stolen moment alone. For a moment, she was sure that it had gone wrong beyond all saving.

  She steadied herself with a deep breath. She would not let herself believe that.

  “Yes,” Baradun said simply. “You are the only one he has seen. He has spoken of you, I am told. The others are not pleased, they say you have wormed your way into his affections.”

  “I have not!” Alleyne was startled by her own vehemence. “I did nothing improper.” Well, except for showing up in the imperial quarter in the dead of night. She ignored that; certainly, it had not been for the purposes of ensnaring the Emperor. “He sought me out. He said his uncle had spoken of me, and surely no one can accuse me of charming the Regent.”

  Baradun smiled wryly at that. “No, no one would accuse any of the common women of that. The Regent …” He sighed and sat back once more, studying the ceiling as he thought. “The Regent says it is Darion’s decision alone. One rather wonders if he’s trying to start a bidding war. But that wouldn’t explain why he has recommended you to his nephew.”

  “He hopes that if Darion comes to like one of us, the others will tear us down with rumors of secrets, and Darion will come to think the whole matter would be best forgotten.” She saw Baradun’s sudden, alert look and tried to recover. She lifted a shoulder, hoping the gesture looked careless. “Perhaps. It is only a guess.”

  “It is a good one.” Baradun was looking at her with a new appreciation. “Melisande, you see the court clearly. You understand the machinations of those who wish to rise. If you wish to take the throne, however, you must learn to make use of that knowledge. You must learn to seize opportunities.”

  And she knew how to seize this one. She had only to make herself do so. She considered, took a deep breath.

  “Have the other nobles complained to Darion himself?”

  “Some, yes.” Baradun’s smile said that he was looking forward to her conclusions.

  “While you were there?”

  “Yes.”

  She had only to reach out, and claim the prize. It was her plan, and hers alone. The thought was sudden and dizzying. Never had she undertaken so much without Almeric. She swallowed.

  “Please send His Majesty a message from me,” she said. She took a deep breath and lifted her chin, a small, satisfied smile on her lips. “Tell him that I do not wish to cause division in the court, and I would be happy to withdraw if he sees fit.”

  Baradun looked eminently satisfied. “I will do so at once, my dear. Out of curiosity, what do you think will happen?”

  Alleyne allowed herself a small smile. “I think he will come to see me, himself.”

  She did not know how long it would take to find the truth of the plot, and expose it. Until then, she must keep Darion wrapped around her little finger.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  It did not take long; Darion was announced less than three hours later, sending Margery scrambling for a better gown and Alleyne waving her away. As she was, relatively unadorned, she would be exactly what Darion desired.

  She had been jumping at every knock on the door, heart suddenly racing. She had been thinking of Darion receiving the message from her. Would it sit unread on a table while he attended to matters of state? Or would he rip it open at once when he saw Baradun’s seal?

  It did not matter. He was here now, as she had told Baradun he would be.

  She had not, however, expected his anger. Even as she stood to smooth, Darion burst into her private rooms with Baradun and Margery in tow. Alleyne stopped dead, hand reaching for the bed, heart pounding in her chest.

  “I would have a moment alone with Lady Melisande,” he said curtly.

  Baradun hesitated only a moment before withdrawing with a deep bow and Darion stared down his guards and his attendant lords until they, too, left the room. They looked at her curiously, but she did not pay them a moment’s notice. They were not important—it was their absence that was important.

  For suddenly, she was alone with him again. If she were to kill him now, Margery would surely not let the matter of the plot go unheeded; she would tell Baradun. And was Alleyne likely to get such a chance again?

  She tried to force her mind to work, but she could hardly seem to breathe with Darion here. All she could think of was his gaze on her and the flush rising in her cheeks.

  Do it now. Forget the speech, do it now. She didn’t have her dagger, but on the table by the window, there was a bowl of fruit—and an ivory-handled knife for peeling. He advanced on her and she backed toward it, feeling a strange certainty rise in her blood. This was a fight, a dance. She retreated and drew him on, and yet there was no artifice in her trepi
dation; she genuinely did not know what to expect from him now.

  Darion only stopped when she had nowhere else to go, leaving a scant foot between them. They both knew he could trap her if he wished. They both knew he was choosing not to do so—for now.

  “You would withdraw from court?” he asked her finally. His voice was deathly soft.

  “If Your Majesty sees fit.” One arm was trapped between her body and the table. Alleyne eased it free and felt behind herself for the knife. She felt more alive than she could remember. Her breath was coming shallowly, and she could feel heat in her cheeks.

  “And what,” Darion asked softly, “would lead you to believe that I wished such a thing?”

  “Your Majesty, I—”

  “Look at me.” A young man he might be, but Darion II had held his throne for fifteen years. Her eyes flew to his at the command and he inclined his head for her to speak.

  “I know there are those who say I could not be a good candidate for consort.” Once again, the steps of the dance laid themselves out in their mind. “Your Majesty, you should not be here. They will talk.” Behind her back, her arm stretched across the table.

  His eyes darkened. “I am their Emperor,” he said simply, carelessly. “Let them talk. I will go where I wish.”

  Her finger brushed the haft of the knife and she caught her breath, grabbed for it.

  “Do you seek an escape, then?” Darion stepped close.

  She snatched her hand back against herself, knife clasped tight. This was it. She would run through the gardens. There was no other way. There would be no time to stop for Almeric, he would have to follow her when he heard.

  Would he come to the rooms, to see Darion’s body?

  She was growing dizzy with it, and she saw his eyes track the maelstrom in her own. Something changed a moment later. He stepped back, looked away from her; she could see him fighting for calm. He strode away. One hand rubbed the back of his neck.

  “Darion?”

  His head turned sharply at the sound.

  She sank into a curtsy out of instinct. “Your Majesty, my apologies.”

  “I did not expect you,” he said finally. He stepped toward her, checked himself. His shoulders lifted helplessly. “I did not expect you,” he said again, and he sounded almost as if he were pleading. His eyes traced over her face, over one bare shoulder, and she could see the hunger in his gaze. “I did not expect you to make me laugh,” he said finally, softly. He looked away from her.

  “Nor did I, Your Majesty.” The smile was involuntary.

  He leaned back against the bookshelves, arms crossed over his chest. He was smiling now as well. “What did you expect?”

  “I expected a man who would pay me no mind, a man to whom I would be an ornament and nothing more.” She swallowed. “I expected you to be cold.” I expected you to be cruel.

  “And now?”

  “Now I do not know what to think, Your Majesty. You are … nothing like I expected.”

  “And what does that mean?” he asked. Almost, she thought he was not speaking to her at all. Then his eyes found hers. “I thank you for being honest.”

  She bit her lip. Perhaps she should not have told him the truth; sharing her secrets had never been a piece of the plan. And then a thought struck her, and she gave into the instinct. “And you? What did you expect?”

  He raised his eyebrows with a laugh. “I should have expected that question, for one thing. Very well.” He considered. “I expected … I expected to sift through dozens of women, some of whom wanted power for its own sake. I thought after the edict that I should have sent emissaries in secret, to seek out a likely wife. I thought it was a fool’s dream, and I would find no one.”

  “And what did you want?” It was the right question to ask, but she asked it for no more reason than that he was sad.

  “I wanted a woman who dreamed as I did.” His answer was immediate. “I wanted someone resourceful, who had seen more of the world than this sheltered life. I wanted—I wanted—a woman I might laugh with.” His eyes were faraway now. “I wanted a woman who would teach our children to walk in the gardens. I wanted a woman who would know the value of learning, who would remind me that dreams of a greater Aiqasal were nothing if there was no grain in the fields.”

  There was something wistful in his voice, and she realized her eyes had drifted closed as she saw it: a woman on a throne, accepting the scorn of the court with a wry twist of her mouth; dinner over a candlelit table, Darion’s cloak dropped carelessly over a couch and her laughter rising in the night air; their children running ahead of them as they strolled together in the gardens.

  His touch jolted her back to reality. He was at her side, pulling her close, and the knife dropped from nerveless fingers to land silently on the carpets. She was crushed close to him, breath coming short as he stared down at her. His head bent uncertainly, and for a moment, she was sure he would kiss her. The thought sent a stab of terror through her, so sharp it almost seemed sweet.

  “And what do you want?” His voice slid across her skin like a shiver.

  You.

  Yes, that was what she should say.

  She was too afraid to say it, afraid of the strange pain in her chest and the way her blood seemed to be on fire. Superstitiously, she feared that if she said it aloud, that would make it real. “I want what is best for Aiqasal,” she whispered.

  He stepped back from her at once; something flared in his eyes and she saw him push it away.

  “As do I,” he said flatly. “And so you will stay at court. It is my command.”

  There was the sense of something lost, and she did not know how to recapture it. Alleyne sank into a deep curtsy, her eyes lowered. “Your Majesty.”

  She held the curtsy until the door slammed, and then she lifted her gaze to seek out the knife lying on the carpets. She picked it up and placed it once more in the bowl, and when Margery came back into the room, Alleyne was curled up once more on a couch, reading, the room exactly as it had been, and only the fading flush in Alleyne’s cheeks for a reminder of what had occurred.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Dawn on the Day of Elius came inauspiciously, cloaked in rainclouds. Alleyne stood still while Margery plaited her hair back from her face with an elaborate circlet of tiny braids, leaving the rest in a wealth of brown-black curls. Her skin was rubbed with oil that smelled faintly of water lilies. A veil covered her face, but it was held back for a single tiny cliff rose to nestle above one ear.

  She had expected another of the simple gowns, made to show her off as a paragon of a bygone age, but Baradun was subtler than she gave him credit for. When Margery reported that at least seven of the other candidates would be wearing Hellenic robes, Baradun only smiled and brought out the gown the seamstress had made for the occasion: pale green with draping sleeves, open to the shoulders. It was a marvel of simple lines, embroidered with tiny leaves that evoked spring—and Alleyne’s now much-mentioned devotion to Anatolia. It fitted her so closely that Margery must sew the seams closed once Alleyne had stepped into the gown.

  She was accustomed to smiling and letting others choose her attire, but Alleyne found herself staring in the mirror when Margery finished her work and sat back on her heels. She looked, truly, like a lady of the court. One hand smoothed down the front of the gown, and the other reached up to brush her hair.

  “Don’t muss it,” Margery said at once, ever practical. She gave a lop-sided smile. “Ye look beautiful.”

  Alleyne’s fingers rose to press the veil back against her face. It obscured some of her features, but not enough, in her opinion, and she had not been able to give Baradun a good reason for obscuring her face now. He had agreed only under duress, when she insisted that such piety might appeal to the Regent. She looked over her shoulder to check that they were alone. “What if someone recognizes me?”

  “Deny it,” Margery advised. “And don’t let on that ye know who the Alsebrun family are.”

  �
��But once anyone sees it, word will spread.”

  “Let it spread.” Margery took a moment to settle her pretty features into a look of polite confusion. “’But I thought they were executed,’” she said, eyes wide. “Like that.”

  Alleyne swallowed. “If Darion hears that rumor …”

  Margery considered this. “You were always planning that he would know, yes? Eventually?”

  “Well … yes.” Directly before I stabbed him.

  It was a blessing that Margery could not read thoughts. She tilted her head. “So mayhap he’ll know sooner rather than later.”

  And there was no place in this dress to hide a knife, except perhaps … “Might I have a moment alone?”

  Margery hesitated. “Why?”

  “To pray.” In a sense, it was almost true. She waited as Margery left the room, then she lifted the mattress quickly and drew the knife out, still in its oiled sheath. She bound it to her thigh as she tightly as she dared with a leather thong and winced at the feel of the leather biting into her skin.

  When she emerged, she hoped she looked calm and composed. She curtsied and came up with her eyes downcast.

  “Look up,” Baradun advised. “You look down only when curtsying, after you meet someone’s eyes. Let them think you do not believe yourself their equal. In the meantime, be gracious. Above all, make all those who speak to you feel comfortable. D’you want to run through the noble crests one more time?” She had studied each and every one, learning the names of her enemies. She knew the names of their children and their holdings, and she had kept careful note, too, of those who attended the Emperor when he passed the death sentence.

  “I know them.”

  “And ye know how it will go?”

  “We’ll be presented to the Emperor before the whole court, yes.” She demonstrated a curtsy in one direction, and a pivot to curtsy again; deep for the Emperor and the Regent, almost as deep for the court. “Shall we go, my Lord?”