by Callie Bates
Hard? In the space of a day, I’ve lost Guerin and Hensey to a false conspiracy; the king who treated me better than his daughter has died and I’ve been framed for his murder; I’ve abandoned Victoire and learned that Antoine’s goodness may have been a lie. And now I’m being dragged north by my father’s men.
Taken together, it’s all so unbearable that my anger is swallowed by grief. A lump swells in my throat. This man, with his dashing looks and irrepressible grin, does not care about my troubles. And yet he’s not laughing now. I can feel him at attention behind me, waiting for my answer.
I find myself whispering. “It seems as if I’ve lost everything, in the space of one day.”
“I know.” His lips touch my ear as he says it—by accident, I think, but my skin burns with awareness despite the distress aching through me.
“How do you know?” I ask to distract myself.
My fingers are digging into the wool fabric of his sleeve, and I feel the strength in his arm beneath it. The horse’s back twitches under us. Jahan’s breath is moist on my neck. He says, “I am not sure it gets easier, but the pain gets less. I know that.”
His hands close over mine, stilling their frantic tugging, and his chin brushes my shoulder. He smells of cinnamon and cloves, horse and sweat. His touch is gentle, and his hands are large enough to cover mine. I realize I’m holding my breath.
“Elanna Valtai,” he murmurs. “You’re not what I expected.” A soft laugh: a warmer puff of air against the back of my neck.
“Jahan…” I’ve forgotten his surname. “That’s not an Idaean name.”
“No.” He sounds amused; his voice has gone low and deep, burring against my spine. “I’m from the Britemnos Isles. My ancestors came from many places.”
The Britemnos Isles lie in the sea separating Eren and Tinan from Paladis, right on the trade route. Though they are a subject state of Paladis, they are known for their mix of dialects and customs, blending Idaean language and traditions with their indigenous ones and others brought by sailors and tradesmen. Why would a Britemnosi lord support a Caerisian rebellion? Especially a Britemnosi sorcerer?
Finn comes up beside us before I can formulate a question. “Jahan. Do you hear that?”
We both straighten, though one of his hands remains tight around mine.
“Quiet!” Finn breathes. Everyone else stops their whispered conversation. There is nothing to hear but the faint wind in the trees, the patter of an animal in the undergrowth. I strain my ears.
And I hear it. The sound of hoofbeats, coming nearer.
The horse rounds the curve. A lantern sways from the rider’s outstretched hand, a mad arc of light bobbing in the hedgerows. There’s a metallic snap as one of my father’s men cocks his musket. Jahan’s drawn a pistol—my pistol—from a pocket, and Finn is reaching for a weapon strapped to the saddlebags behind him.
“It could be anyone,” I whisper at Jahan. “It could be nothing to do with us.”
There’s a clink and the smell of gunpowder as Jahan pulls out a powder flask and loads it into the pan. “On a dark night? Do you believe that?”
I shake my head.
The newcomer draws closer, and in the wild arc of the lantern’s light, I make out something strange about his neck—a profusion of cloth, like ruffled lace. Jahan shifts behind me. He must be shoving the ramrod down the pistol. I feel his arm flex next to mine as he cocks it back.
A voice rings out, high and clear. A young woman’s voice.
“Elanna?”
“Don’t shoot!” I don’t know if I’m shouting at the Caerisians or at Victoire—though the only thing in her hand is the lantern. “She’s a friend. A friend.”
Hugh calls to Victoire, “State your name and business, demoiselle!”
I’m trying to pull myself off the horse, but Jahan grips me hard.
“My name is Victoire Amelie Odette Madoc,” my friend cries out, “and I am here to demand that you unhand Lady Elanna!”
Silence.
“Or take me with you,” she adds.
I give up trying to dismount and just shout at her. “I told you not to come! Your parents—”
“My father is a liar and a thief,” Victoire retorts angrily.
“But Suzette—”
“Mother saddled this horse for me, El.”
We’re close enough now that I can see the lines on either side of her mouth, the righteous look in her eyes, through the jogging lantern-light. She’s not going to go back to Laon, at least not willingly.
“It’s too late for me to turn around,” she says, reading my mind. “The queen’s sent out riders, the royal guard. They’ll catch me if I go back now.”
Our eyes lock, and something cracks in me. I can’t speak. Instead, I dig my fingers into my sleeve—no, not my sleeve, Jahan’s. He doesn’t flinch.
Hugh says, “Well, it seems you’re coming with us, Demoiselle Madoc. We’ve a few more hours to go. Are you up for it?”
“Are you?” Victoire says.
Hugh actually chuckles. “Well, then. Put out that lantern, young lady, and let’s ride.”
—
WE POUND ALONG without speaking for a long while. Victoire has pressed her horse up beside us, nudging Finn out of the way. I’m so relieved that she hasn’t written me off as an utter fool for believing her father’s—and Antoine’s—lies. It still doesn’t sit right with me, the idea that I never questioned the king’s honesty or the uses to which he put his funds. What else have I been blind to?
The fields turn to forest and back to fields, the hills endlessly rolling. Clouds cover the stars; a light mist dampens the air. We’re riding northeast—toward Ganz, presumably, which lies perhaps forty miles outside Laon, in Eren’s heartland. Jahan’s presence is sure and silent behind me. An Idaean sorcerer—a Britemnosi sorcerer. Why is he here?
And why does every movement of the horse rock me back against him, so that I can’t forget his presence?
At last, partly to distract myself from his silent warmth, I turn to Victoire. “How did you get out?” I whisper-shout to her.
“We heard what happened in the garden. I went back out and saw you’d collapsed, and this oaf hauling you away.”
A choking noise from Jahan. “Oaf?”
“He claims he’s a gentleman,” I say to Victoire. “But his actions so far disprove that.”
There’s a gust of warm breath on my neck as he laughs. “What? Still no gratitude for saving your life?”
“You haven’t saved my life. You prevented me going to prison.”
“Where you would have been sentenced to death.”
“Oh! Really!” I’m spluttering again, and even through the dark I see Victoire staring at me. Us, rather. I clear my throat. “I suppose I am grateful. Even if you did abduct me.”
Jahan’s fingers brush my waist, and I sense him grinning again. Infuriating man.
“Go on, Victoire,” I say. “How did you get here?”
“Well,” she says, “I had to do something after we saw them take you away! But Papa was watching me like a hawk, as if he knew just what I was thinking. I had to wait till nightfall. Of course, by then I thought I’d never catch you, but I still had to try. I went up to my room as if I were going to bed, but I put on my coat and boots, and as I was trying to decide whether to crawl out the window, Mama came in. She said she’d had your captors followed—think of it, my mama, contriving to send a maid after them!—and word had just come that they’d left the Paladisan embassy, with you still unconscious.” Her voice sharpens with indignation. “So Mama saddled a horse. She said I must hurry or I’d lose you. I would have lost you, if it weren’t for her.”
“Why did she do it?” I marvel. Madame Madoc is a delight in the drawing room, but I’ve never imagined her as much of an adventuress—or willing to sabotage her husband’s plans. Except that she, too, must have known the truth about the revenue reports. She must have witnessed her husband’s—and Antoine’s—dishonesty firs
thand.
“I think she was ashamed of how Papa treated you,” Victoire says. “And she said I had nothing to fear from these people.”
“Maybe she sympathizes with your common people and their desire for a rightly elected king,” Jahan says. “Maybe she supports our cause.”
“Your cause?” I say narrowly.
“Our cause,” Finn calls from behind us, “to free the people of Eren and Caeris from the tyranny of the Eyrlais—”
From the front of the line, Hugh shouts, “That is enough, all of you! No more talk. Do you want to put us all in danger?”
We fall silent. The fields turn to forest again, stone walls falling away to the silent undergrowth of ferns and fallen leaves, as the horses carry us through into morning.
—
BY DAWN, MY eyes are gritty from exhaustion. Neither Jahan nor I have spoken for hours. Part of me still wants to be cross with him, but I’m too aware of his arm holding me close, the touch of his breath heating the back of my neck. As the horses slow, his hand grasping the reins brushes mine. I’m too warm, despite the chill wind.
“Water?” His voice is rusty with tiredness.
I take the slack waterskin from him, aware of our hands touching again. “Thank you.”
We’ve come into a narrow lane, bordered on either side by high hawthorn hedges. Between the beech trees that lift over the top, I glimpse the blue slate roofs of a bucolic country manor, puffing soft curls of smoke into the sky. It looks almost unbearably inviting. The idea of being safe inside four walls, beside a fire…
But surely this is the Count of Ganz’s land and home. The man with the monkey. I suddenly wonder if he didn’t sow the rumors of his eccentricity himself, to keep people away from the revolutionaries he’s sheltering.
But no matter how unthreatening the Count of Ganz may turn out to be, I’m here with my father’s men. They surely don’t have my best interests at heart.
No. My father can want me for only one thing.
I suppose this has been his plan all along—to wait until I’m of age and then drag me back to Caeris, willing or no. Poison the king and let me take the blame, so I’m grateful when he comes to rescue me. So that I’ll do anything he asks. So that I’ll be what he wants me to be.
How I wish I’d learned to wield my magic better when I was a child in Caeris! Then I could use it now, in the exact opposite way he wants. So that I can get away from him and his plans.
The line of riders ahead of us turns onto a slightly wider track leading to the side of the manor. We pass a henhouse loud with the irritable clucking of chickens and come to a stop under a large elm. A kitchen girl, walking up from the stable yard with a full pail of milk, emits a small shriek, and milk splatters everywhere.
My stomach rumbles.
“I’m starving,” Jahan says, swinging off our horse with a groan. In the morning light, his usual grin is absent. There’s a line between his brows. He holds up a hand to help me dismount, but I wave him away; I don’t want to be distracted by his touch. When I hit the ground, my legs almost buckle. I stagger in the mud, trying to work the feeling back into them.
Victoire dismounts beside me, grimacing. I wait for Jahan to move away, toward the house, and then I grab her elbow. “We’ll get out of here,” I whisper to her.
Her eyes widen. Why is she surprised? Does she think I want to be a traitor to the crown, on the run for my life, a pawn in my father’s king-making schemes? She whispers back, “I thought you’d want this.”
I feel my face contort. “No.”
Knowing Victoire, she thinks the whole idea of a revolution is wildly romantic—not to mention a way to put her father in his place. She doesn’t know revolutions are messy disasters where people die so that someone who hardly deserves it can come to power.
I stalk toward the house, after Jahan. Victoire follows me.
—
THERE’S A SWARM of stable hands, kitchen servants, and a woman in blue who seems to be in charge of them all. We are swept into the house, tramping through the kitchen and up the stairs to a morning room upholstered in pastel yellow. A man in an embroidered silk dressing gown jumps up from the table with an exclamation: “Hugh!”
“Hilarion!” Hugh replies.
They embrace with much back-pounding. Victoire and I exchange a glance. So this is what the notorious Count of Ganz looks like at home. It’s nothing like the rumors—except perhaps for that dressing gown. It’s so ugly it’s fashionable.
Two maids bring in silver trays filled with tea and scones and toast and cheese. Despite my resolve to remain stern and aloof, my mouth waters. Hugh has switched into speaking Caerisian, which the Count of Ganz evidently understands, and my ears are too tired to deny they know the words, as well.
Victoire nudges me. “I like the look of him,” she whispers, pointing her chin at Finn.
I stare up from the food to Finn. He’s greeting the Count of Ganz. I suppose he does draw the eye, tall and narrow as he is, with his ruddy-gold hair and the eager pink of his lips.
“Don’t bother,” I whisper to Victoire. We won’t be here long enough for her to make a pass at him.
She pouts at me.
Hugh moves on to introduce Jahan—in Ereni, now. “This is Jahan Korakides, the new ambassador for the emperor of Paladis, come to us all the way from Ida.”
“The Korakos?” says the count, with a raised eyebrow. “Our cause must be dear to the emperor indeed, if he sent his beloved son’s savior. How does Prince Leontius spare you?”
The Korakos? I stare at the young man who’s been riding behind me all night, feeling a flush build from the pit of my stomach to my cheeks. The count must have made a mistake—in translation, no doubt. Korakides is similar to Korakos. The dashing Korakos, the crown prince of Paladis’s best friend, wouldn’t come to a backwater country like Eren. He wouldn’t grasp my hand and tell me he knows what it’s like to lose everything you know. He wouldn’t save my life, and he wouldn’t look at me the way he does.
Even more than that, the crown prince wouldn’t have a best friend who practices magic.
“Quite begrudgingly,” Jahan is saying. “But when the fate of a nation is at stake, we must all make concessions.” He smiles, making his dimple flash, and it’s the quicksilver twist of his mouth, the smoothness with which he answers the count, that makes me realize it’s the truth. One can only learn that sort of behavior at court. And his eternal amusement makes a certain sense; it must be the way he has survived the Idaean court, where they prize wit above all else.
But of course he hides behind a mask. He’s a sorcerer. He’s had to hide that secret, in public, in the largest court in the world, where it’s easier to keep gold and palaces secret than to hide magic.
As if sensing my gaze, he gives me a sudden, genuine grin. And everything in me seems to tighten and somehow expand. Korakides: “son of the raven.” That’s where he got his nickname. But he’s not a raven, he’s a hawk, with his golden-olive skin and his ruffled dark hair and his sure, easy stance. He’s the sort of person anyone would fall in love with: maidens, ladies of the court, storytellers, princes.
“…Lady Elanna Valtai,” Hugh is saying, and I startle away from Jahan’s gray eyes.
The Count of Ganz actually gasps. Without any of the formality he showed Finn or Jahan, he crosses straight over the carpet and enfolds me in his arms. This is a rather more candid acquaintance with the dressing robe than I’d expected, but when Hilarion pulls back, there are tears in his eyes. “Dear girl…I was there the night they took you. I saw it happen—the king; the pistol—and I thought, We shall never see that poor child again. But Antoine kept you alive. And now here you are. You have escaped, and are back with us.”
I force a smile. If I had my way, they wouldn’t be seeing me again.
The maid brings in a new tray of food. The smell of fresh bread is torture. My stomach growls loudly.
Everyone laughs.
“How rude of me!” the count e
xclaims. “Of course you must be starving. Seat yourselves and eat.” Everyone makes for the table. He squeezes my arm and says to me in an undertone, “Your parents will be so glad to have you back. The suffering your poor mother has endured…” He draws in a breath. “It broke her, losing you.”
A fist seems to be squeezing my heart. But I wet my lips and look at the food on the table. It broke her?
Well, it broke me more.
Unbidden, I hear the music. The song. Her song. Just for you, Elly. I wrote it just for you.
I refuse to hear it.
“Thank you, Count Hilarion,” I say roughly. I move past him toward the table, pretending not to see the sympathy in his eyes.
CHAPTER FIVE
After stuffing myself at the breakfast table, I’m so full I think I might not be able to sleep. We’re given access to the bathhouse—“Ladies first,” says Hugh—and fresh robes and chemises. Now that I’m finally alone, I should make a plan for getting Victoire and myself out of this place, but instead I fall asleep in an enormous canopied bed, with my face plastered into my wet hair.
It’s dark when I wake up—not even a candle burning in the cavernous room—and though I can hear the ticking of a clock nearby, I have no way to see the time. My bladder, however, reminds me that I drank a rather large quantity of tea before going to bed around noon. With a sigh, I get up. It’s so dark I have to search for the chamber pot by touch, but finally I locate it.
The clock is sitting on the fireplace mantel—the banked coals still giving off some sluggish heat, but no light. The clock heavy in my hands, I pad over to the window to look at the time. It’s a cloudy night, but I can just make out the position of the hands—shortly past eight. I’m shocked at how soundly I slept. It feels like the middle of the night, and the warmth of the bed tempts me.
But I need to make a plan. I don’t like how quickly I’ve become comfortable here, and this isn’t the time for complacency. I need to escape before it’s too late, before we’re back in Caeris and I’m facing my father and the truth of what I am. I hunt down my discarded riding clothes. They’re hung over a chair by the fireplace, and when I pick them up, the odor of sweat and horse is almost overpowering. But at least I have a clean chemise to tuck into the trousers.