Daughter of Ashes (Rise of Aiqasal Book 1)

by Moira Katson

  “We shall.” He offered her his arm. “We shall be accompanied by two of the Palace Guard. Margery?”

  Margery swung the door open and the two guardsmen dropped into bows. Almeric’s eyes met hers when he came up, his hand curling briefly around the pommel of his sword. At his side, the other guardsman, a man with a hooked nose and a mop of black curls under his helmet, studied Alleyne in evident interest. He was close enough to see through the veil, and he looked disappointed, as if he was not entirely sure what all the fuss was about.

  They walked through hallways that were suspiciously well traveled. Servants loitered to catch a glimpse of the women being led from the nobles’ quarters, noble sons and daughters not old enough to be a part of the court proper wore their finest clothing and watched the procession go by. Ahead of Alleyne and Baradun were two of the other young women brought to court by the noble families. One had hair like flame, brushed and hanging loose down her back. The other shared Alleyne’s dark curls and had skin of a warm copper.

  At Alleyne’s side, Almeric’s presence was like an anchor. She did not dare look at him, but she did not need to do so; she could feel him, lending her courage. She was walking into the greatest danger yet, and he would not let her go alone. She remembered his hand closing around the pommel of the sword. They had run before, and they had survived tremendous odds. With Almeric at her side, she could do anything.

  The presentation to the court was to be held in Darion’s throne room. Baradun led Alleyne through a growing crush of nobles, stewards, and clerks, as Almeric cleared all of them away from Alleyne with barked commands. There were hundreds of pairs of eyes watching her; she did not dare look up and tempt fate by showing her mother’s eyes, her father’s nose.

  Indeed, it was all she could do not to turn and take herself back to Baradun’s chambers. This was a farce, a pointless risk. No one in the court would be won over by her, no matter how she smiled and curtsied. They were here to revel in their hatred of her. She felt a moment of pity for the other young women, who might be hated even by those who had taken them in.

  A crier, hardly visible in the crowd, called out Baradun’s name.

  Melisande … She heard the word go through the crowd like a sigh. Heads turned.

  She lifted her eyes, to fix her gaze on Darion, but he was not there. No one was there, not even the Regent. Her brow furrowed and she smoothed her face hastily into the bland smile she had practiced with Baradun.

  “Do not fret, my dear,” he murmured to her.

  She wondered how he had sensed her discomfort, and then realized that she was gripping his arm so tightly her hand was white. She loosened her fingers and gave him a quick smile.

  The throne room was a thing of beauty. A wide stone floor was set with stones from all over Aiqasal’s once-great empire, and strong columns rose into the shadows by the ceiling. The dome, painted with gold leaf on the outside, was even more beautiful inside, each of the four gods given their own quarter of the dome. Elius rode in his chariot, silhouetted against a brilliant sun; Lycoris held an hourglass and a sheaf of wheat; Alogo was shrouded in darkness and chaos, stars winking amidst the black; and Anatolia rose from the sea, framed by a sunrise and cloaked in shimmering silk.

  And the throne … was empty. The nobles milled, apparently without purpose. Alleyne exchanged a quick glance with Baradun, who gave a quick shake of his head. Something had changed, but he did not know what.

  The crier shouted something, and everyone quieted; a detachment of the Imperial Guard was making its way through the crowd like an arrow. Two stopped in front of Baradun and Alleyne, and she knew a moment of true terror.

  “Lord Baradun.” A man bowed low. He wore the golden chain and sigil that marked the captain of the Imperial Guard. He was pale, his brown hair tinged with red, and his smile was pleasant. He looked like a man who had no secrets; green eyes flicked to meet Alleyne’s. “My lady.”

  “Sir.” Alleyne felt her fingers tighten again.

  “I am commanded to bring you to the council chamber.” The Captain of the Guard held out his arm. His guardsmen had found every one of the young women brought, and were making a path for them through the crowd to the doors of the council chamber, beside the throne.

  Misgiving grew, and before she could stop herself, Alleyne looked to Almeric. He gave a small shake of his head; he did not know what was happening.

  She could not make a scene simply for the sake of fear. Alleyne let herself be led across the floor. She had her knife, and she had her wits about her, wits honed by life beyond the third wall. She had endured the spite of this court once before, she told herself. She would survive this.

  The group of women and guards stopped by the doors and she was led through alone, and she cast a glance over them. Pretty faces stared back, as worried as her own, some openly unfriendly, others merely curious.

  And then the captain of the guard ushered her into the council chambers, bowed, and withdrew alone.

  “Ah, Melisande.” The Regent’s smile had no warmth to it at all.

  Trembling, Alleyne raised her veil as she looked at the members of the tiny group assembled: the Regent, in all his finery; Darion, solemn, holding himself back, jaw tight and the fingers of one hand clenched on the arm of his chair; and, standing over a diagram on the floor …

  The Truthspeaker.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  The bottom dropped out of her stomach. Alleyne heard a ringing in her ears and knew that she had swayed. She saw the Regent, ensconced in his chair, give a secret smile, and she pulled herself up. He was here to watch her fail—he had orchestrated this, it was clear—and she was damned if she would give him any satisfaction. She nodded to Jarin, not letting her eyes linger. Any appeal would be damning, and she could not let herself think about what he might do. That would lead her to hope, and hope … Hope blinded. Hope killed. She forced her gaze onward; she curtsied to the Regent, and sank deeper into the curtsy as she inclined her head to Darion.

  He was where she must focus her energy. He was the one who could order this stopped. The Regent had been clever in this: if Darion acceded to his uncle’s wishes, one after another of the girls would be brought her and sent away for no more than the usual secrets a human soul held; if Darion did not allow it, the doubt would grow over the years like an itch in his mind until it drove him mad.

  Even the Regent, however, in his constant suspicion, did not dream why Alleyne was here. Such a doubt would take many years to claim Darion’s sanity, and he would be long dead by then.

  And so Darion must be convinced to call it off. She came up to fix him with a smile, as open as she could make it. “Your Majesty, what is it you wish of me?”

  The Emperor made a noise, hastily bitten off. His fingers tightened around the arm of the chair.

  “Melisande, do you recall what I said to you on the day we first met?” The Regent’s voice was light and warm.

  The traps, by their very nature, never appeared where she had thought. She looked between the Regent and the Truthspeaker, suddenly uncertain. Was he seeing where her loyalty lay, did he want her to put a pretty face on his words? Or was that a trap, itself, and the Truthspeaker would name her a liar as soon as she did so?

  Think, think! It must be the latter, surely—for if she said something politic and the Truthspeaker named it a lie, the Regent would simply be forced to defend himself to Darion, in any case. She straightened her shoulders, and looked directly at the Regent as if she could not feel Darion’s regard on her face.

  “My lord, you said that you would not let a viper into the court. You told me that if I wished to become Darion’s consort, I would have to prove myself to you.” She did not mention his threat of a knife in the darkness.

  His eyes gleamed at that. “Yes. That is what I said. Truthspeaker?”

  Jarin only nodded. His jaw was tight. He looked, Alleyne thought, like a trapped animal.

  She could not let herself feel pity for him. There was no doubt ab
out him, she told herself. He could unmake her—and now that he knew what she was, he would. Like a fool, she had proven herself to be a threat to him. If he had an ounce of sense, he would take this chance to show Darion what she was, and she would simply have to hope that she could reach Darion before the Regent could intervene. Her fingers took hold of the fabric of her skirt, ready to draw it up so she could reach the knife at a moment’s notice.

  If Jarin got a chance to look into her mind, there was only one way this played out: her hands sticky with Darion’s blood, surprise fading from his eyes as his life ebbed away, and the Regent striking her down as she watched the Emperor die.

  “Melisande?”

  Her head jerked up. She had been so focused on her panic that she had missed a question. “My lord, I apologize. What was it that you said?”

  The Regent studied her, his eyes narrowed. “I said that I have convinced my nephew that it is in his best interests to have each candidate for the role of consort face a truthspeaker.” His jaw tightened. “I hope I have managed to convince him that trust—” he tried to keep his voice light, but there was no masking the contempt “—is for commoners in the fields, not men who rule the greatest empire the world has ever seen.”

  Darion had flinched.

  He wanted to trust her. Something twisted inside her and Alleyne tried not to let her expression betray her. Calm, now. Careful. But how to turn this to her advantage?

  “I am Your Majesty’s servant.” She caught Darion’s gaze and held it. “If there is aught I have told you that you believe might be a lie, you have only to ask me.”

  Darion lips parted. He shook his head, almost desperately, and the Regent spoke harshly.

  “Your father kept many things from you—one was the number of attempts on his life. That is what it is to rule Aiqasal. We have many enemies in this world.”

  “My father was beloved,” Darion said. He looked lost, a shadow of the man in the garden. He was fifteen once more, watching his uncle rule.

  “In his own lands, perhaps. But was he beloved by Rasteghai? By Illesand?”

  He had touched a nerve; Darion’s back straightened, and his face went cold. “I have told you time and again, Rasteghai is our ally.”

  “And I have told you that until a treaty is signed and I see their soldiers move, I will trust nothing.” The Regent’s voice was flat. He paused, visibly warring with his anger, and appeared to push it away. His smile was a painful grimace. “Whatever trust you wish to have in the world, Your Majesty, I will do what is necessary to preserve the throne.”

  There was a silence.

  “Why?” Darion asked suddenly.

  “Why protect my empire and my nephew?” The Regent’s voice was equal parts incredulous, and furious.

  “Why do you think she is an assassin?” Darion met Alleyne’s eyes for one blazing moment. His gaze left her, traced over the Regent’s face. One fist lay on the arm of his chair, clenched so hard the knuckles were white. “What would make you think such a thing?”

  Should she say something? Should she spur Darion on once more? Or should she let him shoulder the burden of this fight alone, and believe it to be his sense of wounded pride, and nothing more?

  She could not think of anything to say, and that decided matters for her. Alleyne folded her hands before her and tried to keep her focus on Darion. She saw the assassination in her mind: one step, another, a leap onto the table as she drew the knife, and she could spill Darion’s blood in seconds. The Regent would kill her … but this would be her only chance.

  Tears pricked her eyes. She wished she’d had a chance to say goodbye to Almeric.

  The Regent’s calm, placating tones brought her back to reality. “—not only that,” he was saying. “Your Majesty has the desire for a bride who shares his idealism. Such desires can blind us to the truth. Have you told this woman what you wish to be your legacy?”

  Darion hesitated. “Yes,” he admitted. “Not all of—“ He broke off. “Yes.”

  “And thus, even if she did not share your wishes, she would be able to say the correct words,” the Regent suggested.

  “It is not …” Darion closed his eyes. “I do not wish to interrogate my wife,” he said simply. “It is not an auspicious start to a marriage.”

  She tried not to let her desperate hope show in her face at that, and she thrust away the sweet flare of something else, burning like poison in her blood.

  “You cannot look to the character of her parents, as you might if she were a lady of the court.” The Regent’s careful tone told Alleyne that he had given this same speech many times before. “She tells us that her parents are deceased—a terrible fact if true, yes, as Your Majesty knows—but is it not also convenient? To hear them tell it, there are a dozen orphans vying for Your Majesty’s affections. Surely the city is not so dangerous as that.”

  Alleyne felt a wave of annoyance at that. She was an orphan. How dared these other women lie about such a thing? She gave a tiny shake of her head, admonishing herself. The other women were not the enemy.

  Darion looked helplessly at Alleyne for one long moment.

  “Your Majesty …” Her voice trailed away.

  “Yes?” He gave her a rueful smile.

  She did not know what to say. She shook her head and looked down at her folded hands. She felt dizzy all of a sudden. It was going to be over soon, and that did not feel quite real. There was a chance she could escape, yes, but not a good one. Her life would be snuffed out—just as Darion’s would be, she reminded herself—and there would be nothing left of her. She had always said the words of the prayers obediently when Almeric told her to do so, but she wondered now if she could believe that there was a heaven waiting for her.

  She wondered if a murderer, even one avenging their parents, was allowed into heaven.

  And if not, if all of this was her last few moments, she wanted to scream that she had spent so many days choosing dresses, learning to curtsy. She had seen nothing of the world, and it was not fair, not fair, not fair—

  “Understand that I regret this.” Darion commanded her attention easily.

  She swallowed, shoving away the rising panic. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  “Understand …” He looked away from her. She could see the sheen of tears in his eyes.

  Why?

  “Your Majesty?”

  “I believe—” He broke off. “I know,” he corrected himself quietly, “that you are a woman of conviction, courage, and honor.”

  She was frozen in place. I am not, she wanted to say. I am a liar. I have misled you from the first time I saw you.

  Darion’s eyes were warm on hers. Just for a moment, and then he squeezed them shut. He looked away, lifted two fingers to Jarin.

  The Truthspeaker bowed, every courtly grace in his movements. He gestured to the diagram. “Madam, if you would.”

  Alleyne hesitated, but no bonds sprang up to hold her in place as she walked onto the lines. Whatever this spell was, it was not the same as the one in Jarin’s chambers.

  Her finger clenched on the fabric of he dress; as soon as he began to speak the name Alsebrun, she would move—and Darion would be dead. Skirt up to bare the knife at her thigh, take the knife, hold her skirts out of the way as she pushed off a chair and onto the table, as she drove the knife forward—

  She wasn’t feeling anything. She frowned before she could stop herself. She waited for the sensation of the man peering through her memories. She could still remember it, and suppressed a shudder at the thought of fingers combing through her memories and dragging them up to the light.

  He must be preparing the spell. She looked over at him, and her eyebrows shot up in surprise. Jarin’s eyes were closed in evident concentration, and his hands moved as if he were drawing truth out of her mind, but she felt nothing, no pressure, not even the whisper-soft brush of a thought against hers. Could it be that he had another method of telling the truth? Was he learning everything about her before he exposed
her secrets?

  “She has no secrets from you, Your Majesty,” Jarin said simply.

  Alleyne looked over at him in shock.

  “She doesn’t?” the Regent asked, equally incredulous, as Darion’s strangled, “What?” sounded in the room.

  Alleyne’s eyes met the Emperor’s. He looked at Jarin, then at the Regent. He did not look back to her.

  There was a pregnant pause.

  “You may go,” the Regent said finally. His brow was furrowed. He cast a look at Jarin, and then looked back to meet Alleyne’s gaze. “Go, and send in the next woman.”

  How she made her legs work, she was not entirely certain, but Alleyne managed to make her way to the door. She was shaking with relief, with the sudden reprieve, and she only barely remembered to drop her veil back into place before she made her way out into the court.

  There was a sudden silence as she emerged, curious whispers immediately stilled. The court watched her hungrily; she did not need to see it to feel their interest. She met a young woman’s eyes and nodded jerkily. “The Emperor would like to speak with you.” The words were hoarse.

  She lifted her chin and forced a smile, looking over her shoulder as the door closed behind the next candidate. Then her gaze sought out Almeric in the crowd. There was fear in his gaze, and a question.

  It was a question she could not answer. Only one man could, and that was Jarin. She would ask him, she resolved.

  And this time, she would not leave until she had answers.

  Chapter Thirty

  The final tally would be almost amusing, were it not so pitiful: of the candidates, only four remained by the end of the day. Two of the others had been brought from the city, and the only other candidate allowed to remain was the young woman Alleyne had seen walking in the garden with Lady Dianne.

  “Poor girl,” Alleyne murmured.

  “Why do you think so?” Baradun did not look as if he disagreed, but she could see curiosity in his eyes.