Riot of Storm and Smoke

by Jennifer Ellision

  I smile widely. “But that is how you care for Tregle?”

  “That is not what I—”

  “Admit it!”

  She closes her eyes. “I am… I’m not given to openly expressing my affection, Bree. Especially when it can have no fruitful outcome.”

  I groan, falling back against the gentle green grass. “You’re being entirely too logical.”

  “I’m a queen!” she explodes. “Call me a princess all you like, but Nereidium is already mine by right. I have to be logical. My kingdom can’t afford for me to be frivolous. I may not be marrying Caden, but I won’t be allowed to marry for love. I’ll need someone who can bring something to my people. After all of this is over, I’m sure that Nereidium will be worse for the wear. And repairs can’t be paid for with affection.” She spits the word bitterly. “I’ll need money in the treasury or an alliance at the very least.”

  Tregle steps out of the woods, eager to show us the way to the campsite.

  “Aleta,” I say softly.

  “Tregle has no title,” she says, and I watch Tregle’s bright expression die on his face. “No lands, no money, nothing but the clothes on his back, an Element at hand, and a kind heart. He has nothing to offer me.”

  I can’t speak, and Aleta whirls at my silence, following my eyes. A strange noise escapes her, and she scrambles to her feet. “Tregle—”

  “The camp is ready…Your Highness.” He bows mockingly before turning away.

  Aleta’s chest heaves as if she’s been trying to outrun an avalanche. I open my mouth, but she holds up a hand. “Don’t. It’s better this way.”

  “What are you talking about, ‘better this way’?” I motion toward him. “Go after him! He thinks you don’t want him.”

  “Wanting gets no one very far.” She stares down the path Tregle took through the woods like she can see him through the thick of it. “Wanting never got me anything.”

  Aleta wants to face Tregle immediately and get it over with, but I convince her to give him a moment to compose himself before we’re back in front of him, an ever-present reminder of what he’s not good enough for.

  Twilight is falling by the time we’re ready to find our camp.

  The water reflects the sky, an indigo and orange stream. I dip my fingers in for a last touch. It doesn’t skim my fingers like an eager pet any longer, but the liquid on my skin soothes my nerves.

  We walk in silence, Aleta drawing her regal persona around her like a cloak.

  I could never do that, I think, sneaking glances at her. I could never project that air of “do not trifle with me” that’s second nature to Aleta.

  No matter what my bloodline may be.

  After a bit, it occurs to me we should have found them by now. “We should be close,” I say, breaking the quiet. “Don’t you think it’s strange—”

  I’m cut off when Meddie’s cry rips through the air.

  With no words exchanged, Aleta and I correct our course and bolt toward the sound. My heart jumps from my chest to my ears as we whip past branches, sprint over turned-out roots.

  We roar into the camp to find Meddie pinned beneath a man whose knee crushes her elbow to the ground. Tregle battles a woman and another man. He summons a fireball from the air around us, and it’s extinguished quickly by dirt that jolts forward from the ground.

  I falter in my stride and swear. At least one of them’s a Shaker.

  We exchange a quick glance, and then it’s instinctive, the decision we make. Aleta neatly inserts herself into the Elemental battle alongside Tregle, her hands slashing blades of fire at our attackers.

  I’ll be more useful where there aren’t bits of earth and flame flying about. Not one for much grace, I throw myself bodily at the man who has Meddie, grunting as I tackle him at his midsection. He doesn’t fall, but it’s enough to make him shift his weight and Meddie to free herself. She rolls away and springs up, ready for battle and grinning widely, a smirk and promise in her eyes.

  Her hands disappear up her sleeves and withdraw grasping knives. The hilt of one goes between her fingers, the blade emerging from her knuckle like a talon. The other is clenched in a fist, and then Meddie is flying, whirling at the man like a tornado of metal and death.

  I stifle a yell as our attacker grabs me by the hair, and Meddie hesitates. I grit my teeth, trying to break free and cursing myself. I should have shorn my damn locks shorter again when we’d first started out.

  Lashing out, I land a solid punch on his cheek. My fist throbs with the impact, and my hair is pulled tighter, like a short fishing line. The man draws me into a farce of an embrace, his arms around me so cursedly tight that they may as well be rope.

  The roar of flames scorching air has grown worryingly scarce. With much greater frequency, I hear the sound of cannon-like rocks, pounding into the tree trunks behind us.

  I dart a glance in that direction, but can’t make out any sign of Aleta and Tregle. They must have had to seek cover, giving up on attacking and tossing flames out from behind their shelter as simple defense.

  But the Shakers fighting them have to be growing closer.

  My captor’s arms pull tighter around my body. “Drop the knives.”

  Meddie shifts her weight to her other foot, considering. “Or?” she dares him.

  He cranks my neck to the side, and I exhale shakily, biting my lip as his knife kisses my throat. “Take a guess.”

  My breath releases in a whoosh as Meddie’s knives fall to the ground. My captor’s big hands encircle my wrists like cuffs, and he strides toward Meddie, grabbing her and pinning her to his side.

  The other two are on top of Tregle and Aleta now, Tregle on the ground fighting one of them off, while Aleta shoots him fretful glances, her stream of fire growing weak. But a Shaker encases his hand in stone and Aleta’s palm of flame is doused with a cloud of dirt.

  With all of us defeated, I sigh, looking down. The fight is over.

  And we lost.

  Masonstone Estate.

  I swallow uneasily, looking off at the hulking manor that lies up a twining road.

  I’d once been friendly with the daughters of Masonstone. When Clift and I had determined a course of action that involved recruiting the high families of Egria to our case, this had been the most logical place to start.

  The Masonstone girls share the same father, but different mothers. The eldest, Elsbeth, is a no-nonsense sort, with a dry wit and a quick head for numbers. I’d always thought that if Aleta wasn’t kept from the nobility as something separate, something other, they’d have stood a chance at being friends.

  Lilia, the middle sister, has sticky fingers and a stubborn lip. Whenever she visited the capital, those who slighted her or her family would have a trinket go missing. A bauble. If the insult was truly grievous, it would be worse. They’d lose an heirloom. Their horses would lose shoes. It would go on for weeks—until they apologized.

  She likes justice, Lilia. We’d always gotten on well.

  The youngest, Dorna, was still sweet and innocent the last time I saw her. Whether she’s impervious to the effects of court or simply hasn’t been exposed to it for long enough, I don’t know. She had better courtly manners than half of the nobles in Egria.

  Despite their differing personalities, I, like the rest of Egria, tend to think of them as a unit. They’ve always been referred to that way: the daughters of Masonstone.

  They do have a brother, Matthias. He’s but three years old, if I recall correctly. The late product of an old man’s idle pastimes. Old Masonstone had married the boy’s mother, but he’s sharp. He’d long since declared that Elsbeth would be his heir.

  Tradition may not have backed him—Egrians usually leave the estate to their first-born son—but there is no law against it.

  “I am old,” Masonstone is rumored to have said when his will was questioned. “And my son is only a boy. How am I to know what sort of man he’ll grow to be? No, Elsbeth has the wit and patience for the job. It suits
her. I’ll hear no more of this.”

  To my knowledge, no one ever questioned it again.

  Faubert Masonstone is not the sort of man that people question. Unlike so many Egrian nobles, his wealth wasn’t accumulated through inheritance and sound investments—though certainly he’d had his fair share of the latter. But Masonstone’s father had started squandering the family fortune when he was a drunken adolescent.

  By the time Masonstone was grown, his father’s gambling had lost them everything but the lands and estates. And then they’d found his body slit naval to neck.

  Someone else had assumed responsibility for the murder and taken the fall, but as Masonstone succeeded his father and a string of bad luck struck those he negotiated with, he’d gained a reputation.

  A reputation of getting what he wanted.

  Now, staring up at the daunting path before me, I find I have to take a steadying breath. I don’t know if Masonstone’s loyalties lie with the crown. Old friendships or not, this is the first of a great many risks I’ll have to take.

  Dark gray stones dot the road. I shift uncomfortably in my saddle. The horse Clift procured for me is a serviceable animal, but he prances nervously beneath me. Reaching forward, I give his mangy mane an absent pat and he huffs.

  It’s been a hard three-day’s ride from Clift’s hiding place, but I’ve made it. Sleeping along the road was a risky move; that’s where Father’s men would ordinarily travel. But I’d wager that he has enough faith in my education to believe that I’d never choose such an obvious approach. Hopefully, he’ll concentrate his efforts elsewhere.

  Enough time spent in contemplation, I think. Passing beneath stones that look as though someone tried to begin a playing card house with them, I nudge the horse toward the main manor of the estate.

  Guards hail me when I get close. I lift a friendly hand in greeting and, after only a moment’s hesitation, introduce myself without an alias. Subterfuge won’t do here. Clift sent me to use my connections. I can only do that as Caden.

  It’s clear they’re taken aback. “We weren’t…expecting you, Your Highness,” the man-at-arms says, exchanging a glance with his fellow.

  “My journey wasn’t announced. I’m returning from a visit to the Jospuhr estate and thought to rest with my dear friends at Masonstone before continuing home.”

  I bluff my way through, hoping word of my treason hasn’t reached the Masonstone holdings—in particular, the ears of these underlings. I fix an expectant look upon my face, befitting my station, and after a moment’s pause for them to confer, I’m waved up to the estate.

  My horse’s feet are beginning to drag. He’s tired. The stallion is a far cry from my personal steed, from most mounts in the palace’s stables, but he’s served me well. If negotiations with Masonstone go as I hope, I’ll have to see if I can take use of one of his mounts. Give this one a rest.

  Masonstone’s keep lies north of the capital, as do the estates of most Egrian nobles. For reasons known only to our government’s founders, they’d placed Egria’s stronghold about as far south as one can get while remaining within our borders.

  Reaching the stables, I hop from the saddle and hand the horse’s reins to the hostler. An escort meets me when I exit and I recognize her instantly: Elsbeth.

  “I thought perhaps the guards had had too much to drink when they said it was you,” she says.

  “Cousin!” I say exuberantly. Throwing in a roguish smile, I muss my hair, damp with sweat, and reach for her.

  She snorts, dodging me. “‘Cousin.’ You know well that I have always hated that noble address, Your Highness. If there is any blood shared between us, it’s a drop in a vast ocean.”

  I grin, relieved to find her countenance unchanged. “Come, cousin Elsbeth. Have you no love for your prince?” I splay my arms wide.

  “Stay away, you cretin.” She wrinkles her nose. “Makers, when was the last time you bathed?”

  I manage a look of mock affront, though her words serve as a reminder. “I have had heavier things on my mind than rose oil and lye.” I say it lightly, but hold her gaze with weight.

  She nods, but her eyebrows crinkle together for a moment in a way that tells me she catches my meaning. “Well, heavier things or no, you’ll have to clean yourself before we have dinner and discuss things. I can’t stomach my food or think over your smell.”

  Elsbeth walks me to a room and tells me that she will fetch a servant to fill a tub.

  “Bathe,” she says. “Catch your breath. When you are ready, ring for an attendant and they will assist you.”

  She leaves me, and after I’ve given myself a good once-over with a scrub brush and am convinced that the residue of perspiration is gone from my forehead, I ring the bell as instructed. An older man arrives shortly thereafter to escort me to the dining hall.

  I’ve been to the Masonstone estate but two or three times before, but it had always seemed busier than this, I think as I follow in the man’s wake—a chambermaid ducking out of sight, a footman clipping down a staircase, Dorna’s giggles or Matthias’s cries ricocheting through a hallway.

  But excepting the guards patrolling the statuary, I see no one else until the man deposits me in a small chamber, containing a table set with four places. The scent of roasted meat wafts from a platter in the middle and wine waits in a decanter near the head of the table.

  My escort vanishes when we arrive, and a small cannon lands a blow in my middle.

  “Caden!”

  Elsbeth coughs pointedly, and Dorna disentangles herself from my waist.

  “I mean, Your Highness.” She curtsies stiffly, wobbling as she bites her lip in concentration.

  Lilia stands behind the table with her elder sister and nods, a wicked gleam in her eyes. “Cousin,” she greets me.

  Elsbeth groans. “Are we not to even pretend at decorum tonight?” she asks.

  “I should hope not,” Lilia says. “It will be a lot faster for Caden if he doesn’t have to dance around whatever it is he wants from us, after all.”

  “Lilia.” Dorna colors, embarrassed. “I apologize for my sister, Your Highness.”

  I put a hand to my heart, feigning hurt. “A moment ago, I was Caden. What trespass have I performed to move me from friend to title?”

  “Caden,” she amends with a wide grin.

  I look at little Dorna, amazed to see how she’s grown. Has this much time passed that I’ve been embroiled in my father’s affairs? She used to come only to my waist, but her head is level with my chest now. She must be—what? Twelve now? She’s always been the sunniest of the three, but I see the beginnings of a lady in her now.

  Now that I take the time to think of it, I can see changes in all of the sisters. Lilia has left her awkward teenage years behind and is a young woman now—my age. Elsbeth has the regal bearing she’s always had, but there’s nothing of a child left in her face. The round cheeks have disappeared, and her cheekbones stand out prominently.

  I study them a moment longer and see the tension that lines them both. Lilia, leaning against the wall, may be trying for all the world to appear relaxed, lackadaisical even, but her posture undermines her intent; her spine is rigid. Elsbeth has creases in her forehead and between her brows that shouldn’t be there yet—not at twenty-three.

  My gaze drifts to the empty seats, all of us still standing around them. Where is their brother? The lady of the estate? More importantly, where is their father?

  “Will your father and young Master Matthias not be joining us?”

  Dorna shakes her head, eyes falling to the floor. “Matthias is elsewhere with his mother,” she says, sounding troubled.

  Elsbeth clears her throat meaningfully and takes her seat, gesturing for us to do the same. The high-backed wooden chairs screech as we slide them out to take our places and wait, but for Lilia, who keeps her place at the wall and scoffs. “Could we be more of the noble class if we tried? There’s no servant here to wait on us, you idiots.”

  “Cad
en is still our prince, Lilia,” Elsbeth reminds her sister lightly.

  “Sorry. Your Idiot Highness.” Lilia bows before clomping to the table, spearing a large helping of goose onto a three-pronged fork, and distributing it onto her plate. They’d had the foresight to have the kitchens cut the goose, at least. She lands in her seat with a thump.

  I spoon a ladle of the vegetable stew into my bowl and lance some goose for myself. We’re all quiet for a minute, but I don’t intend to—as Lilia put it—dance around the subject. “Where is your father, ladies?”

  They all flinch—Dorna the most obviously. Elsbeth places her spoon beside her bowl, and smoothes out her napkin. “What matters do you have to discuss with our father, Your Highness?”

  With business before us, we’re back to formalities. “That sounds suspiciously like an avoidance of my question, Lady Elsbeth.”

  Her face betrays no emotion, but beside me, Dorna flushes and fidgets.

  “I avoid nothing,” Elsbeth says calmly. “But business with my father is business of the estate. You know well that I am of an equal hand with him in handling such matters.”

  I swear that Lilia has stopped breathing.

  I’d be a fool to ignore such signs as these. “Has he passed into the Makers’ embrace, then?”

  “No,” Lilia snaps and thumps a fist onto the table. Her face has reddened, her teeth are gritted, and her eyes look suddenly wet—and as though, if she had the power, spikes would have shot from them into my skull.

  Dorna bursts into tears. Lilia straightens, breath ragged, and shoots me another aggravated look as she hurries to her sister’s side, shushing her and smoothing down her hair.

  Elsbeth has scarcely moved.

  Red-faced, Dorna looks at me and sucks in a dancing breath. “Father’s sick,” she says around her tears.

  “Dorna!” The reprimand flies from both Elsbeth and Lilia. Lilia pulls her back to look her stern in the face, and at that, Dorna’s tears start again.

  Elsbeth sighs. “I suppose there’s no chance you’ll pretend you didn’t hear that?”