The Waking Land

by Callie Bates

  A tap sounds on the door. I have no idea how much time has passed. Two maids enter, their arms piled with towels and clothes.

  “Lady Elanna, we’re to take you to the bath.” The first maid, ruddy-cheeked and broad, does not disguise how distasteful she finds me. She says to the other, “Hold your nose, Annis.”

  Annis, plump and girlish, looks wide-eyed at me.

  “I will not bathe,” I say. “You may go.”

  The ruddy-cheeked maid utters an exclamation. “But we’re to dress you for supper with the duke!”

  Supper with Denis? That would be enough to put me off food for a week. I set my jaw. “That will not be necessary. I will eat no meals with Denis Falconier.”

  The ruddy maid exclaims at me, but I lie down on the bed and close my eyes. Eventually they leave. But they come back a while later, grunting as they set down basins of wash water and a tray holding celery soup, cold meat cuts, cherry cakes, and tea.

  The smell of food makes my mouth water. I roll over and burrow my face into the coverlet. I’m not going to eat Denis’s food. I wonder if I can go without eating until I find a way out of here.

  Or until Denis or the Butcher take care of that for me.

  “Lady Elanna?” Plump Annis bends over me. “Please, please bathe. And we’ve found the prettiest dress for you.”

  I shake my head.

  “It’s not our fault if she won’t take the duke’s charity.” The ruddy maid huffs. “Better than these so-called revolutionaries deserve, if you ask me.”

  Finally they leave. I drift off to sleep, which promises oblivion. My last thought is a hope that Rhia and Hugh have managed to make a clean escape.

  —

  A RATTLE STARTLES me awake into near-darkness. I sit up. A man is lighting a taper from the fire. A flare of light shows the hands on the clock above the mantel. Past midnight.

  “What are you doing here?” I demand. My voice is hoarse from sleep.

  Jahan paces to the door and rests a hand against the wood. He listens for a moment. Then he says, in an ordinary voice, “That will keep them from hearing anything.”

  “I asked you a question.”

  He comes over to the bed. The flames throw shadows into the hollows beneath his cheekbones, around his eyes and mouth. He crouches before me. He’s not amused, for once. He looks worried. “You have to eat. And bathe. If you have any wounds, they’re going to fester.”

  “I don’t have any wounds.” I remind myself that it’s my mother who betrayed us. But there can be more than one betrayer and more than one means of betrayal, and the words burst out of me, hard and angry. “I thought you were on a ship to Ida. You’re supposed to be gaining the emperor’s support for us. What are you doing here?”

  My voice is rising. It’s a good thing he bespelled the room.

  Jahan takes a breath; his hand goes to the scar behind his ear. “When we came north to meet you, when your father was taken—I told Denis I wanted to see Caeris. That if I could observe the rebels and their magic, I could report to the emperor and have the witch hunters sent. And the black ships.”

  “So you’re on tour with him?”

  He looks at me—and even though I’m angry, warmth builds in my stomach when I meet his eyes. Then he reaches out as if to take my hands. I snatch them away.

  “El.” He leaves his hands open. “I didn’t betray you.”

  “You’re still a double agent. You haven’t sent for the black ships at all, have you? The emperor’s not going to help us.” This is more than I ever expected! he said when we spoke in the mirror. I press on, suddenly suspicious that I’m right. “So why are you here? What do you really want from us?”

  “Finn’s my friend. I want him to succeed.”

  He’s getting angry, fighting to keep his voice even, and I know he means it. He does want Finn to succeed. And yet…

  “Where are your other friends, then? Why have you come alone to help him? Why do you care?”

  He rocks back onto his heels. “Why do you think I would collude with Denis Falconier? There’s nothing in it for me.”

  “Isn’t there?” I snap. “You’re the one who told me that you hide your magic in the open. It seems to me that the best way to throw witch hunters off your scent would be to throw someone else to them.”

  He looks up, and I’m not imagining the shock in his face. “You actually think I would give you up?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t really know you at all. But to save yourself? Yes, I do.”

  He drops onto his knees and reaches for my hand. I tell myself not to be swayed, even as he breathes my name. “Elanna, you don’t understand. I came here for you.”

  Most likely he uses this line on any girl he wants to soften up. I scoff. “No, you didn’t. I’ll wager you didn’t know I existed before you got here.”

  “I did,” he insists. His eyes gleam in the candlelight. “Finn’s people told stories about your ancestors, about the magic the stewards of the land possessed. You’re right.” He leans closer. “I didn’t come here just because I wanted to help Finn. I came here looking for your magic.”

  This is pure flattery. I fight to stay skeptical, even as I want to believe him. “Why?”

  Again, he scratches behind his ear. I can’t tell whether the gesture betrays a lie, or if it means he’s struggling to tell the truth. Sometimes I think the latter may be harder for Jahan than deception.

  “As a sorcerer,” he begins, and halts. He starts over. “At the imperial court, I am…very much alone. When I was fifteen, I ran away from home. I’ve cut myself off from other magicians, except for those in books, and even then I have to be careful not to let anyone see what I read. The idea of a sorcerer being one of the three rulers of your country—the idea that we might use your magic—well, surely you can see what it would mean to me.”

  “But I thought you said the emperor would never help us if we used magic openly.”

  He’s shaking his head. “Yes, but—El, don’t you see? If we make this a nation where we do practice magic openly—even if it means fighting off Loyce Eyrlai and Emperor Alakaseus—it could change the face of the world.” He’s growing impassioned now; his hands make sweeping movements. “Magic is only anathema because the Paladisan empire decided it was. Because magic threatened Paladis. But I’ve learned what actually happened: A cabal of sorcerers almost destroyed their court. It wasn’t about the Paladisans calling sorcery an abomination and insult to the gods; it was that magic could have ruined them and so they set out to destroy it. And I’m not the only one who thinks sorcery might make our society better. Think what we could do with it—we could communicate more easily, heal people, summon rain and sun…”

  He stops; his hope seems to have overwhelmed him. He rises, rubbing a hand over his mouth, and swings away. There are so many questions to ask—a cabal of sorcerers nearly destroyed the empire?—but what shocks me most is his passion. He really does believe in our cause.

  And yet…he came here looking for my magic. He had a plan for me. That’s why he’s here now, because he wants me to help him win his own war. He doesn’t see me; he just sees my power. Just like everyone else.

  It shouldn’t hurt so much, after I believed he’d betrayed us.

  “El?”

  I look up at him, but I find I can’t quite meet his eyes. I don’t know what I was hoping he would say. “Well,” I say, “it’s a worthy cause.”

  One corner of his mouth twitches down. “Impossible, probably.” He gives a shake of his head. “But it’s not why I stayed. I meant to leave for Ida, as I told you. But I…” He glances at me, then stares off over the top of my head, as if telling the truth means it’s hard for him to look right at me. “I couldn’t leave when you still believed I’d betrayed you.”

  “Me?” Is he saying he stayed in Caeris for my sake?

  He finally meets my eyes. His jaw shifts, but he can’t seem to say it.

  He did. He stayed for me, not my magic.

 
“Well,” he says, as if almost-confessing the truth has returned the glibness to his tongue, “I couldn’t abandon you here to ruin my reputation. I had to keep an eye on you.”

  “Really?” I want to smile and shake him at the same time. Why can’t he just say things? “How exactly would I have ruined your reputation?”

  He shrugs. “Telling people I have a heart, I suppose.”

  “I’m not sure how I would have known that.”

  “Wouldn’t you?” He’s enjoying this far too much now. He flashes a grin. “Besides, I had to tell you I know you didn’t kill Antoine Eyrlai.”

  I fold my arms. “Your excuses are getting worse.”

  “No, it’s the truth.” He stops grinning. “And I know who murdered him.”

  My heart seems to lurch into my mouth. I can’t even speak to ask him who.

  He tells me anyway. “Denis Falconier.”

  “What?” I gasp the word. Denis Falconier didn’t even know what the amanita was called, and he poisoned the king with it?

  Jahan shrugs. “Maybe he thinks Loyce will divorce her husband and make him king. Or give him power in other ways, since I understand Antoine disapproved of their relationship.”

  I press my knuckles into my eyes. “Does Loyce know?”

  “That is impossible to say. But I know Denis did it, because…” Jahan’s lips press together. “Because of the way he spoke about you. He couldn’t hide his own self-satisfaction at framing you for murder.”

  I’m shaken, and yet anger is burning up through my gut. Denis did this to me. He ruined my life, and it made him happy. “But you only suspect him. You don’t have proof, do you?” Denis would be more careful than that.

  “He’s bound to slip up somehow. It’s a matter of time.” He adds, “I’m not the only one watching him; I don’t think the Butcher trusts him, either.”

  I look at Jahan. So this is why he’s stuck close to Denis Falconier—not only to hide his own role in our rebellion, but to seek proof of his complicity in the king’s death. So that I can be exonerated.

  I hold out my hands, and Jahan gives a slow smile. He takes my hands, bringing them up to his lips, and brushes a kiss over both of my middle knuckles. His skin is warm to my cool, and his mouth is moist. It makes me a little breathless. I say, “We’ll look for proof together, then. Tomorrow.”

  “And we’ll get you out of here.” He doesn’t let go of my hands. “I’ve sent word to the Barrody underground.”

  I feel myself smiling at him. He’s watching me, intent. It’s not the way he looked at me when we first met, as if I were some extraordinary object; he looks at me now as if he sees me. As if he’s trying to glean my thoughts. For a moment, I think he’s going to lean closer—or that I am. But then he simply squeezes my hands and says, “Come to breakfast. Let Denis have his entertainment of you.”

  I look away from his mouth. “I will.”

  He releases my hands and crosses the room. With a parting smile, he walks through the wall—the fabric of the tapestry and stones swallow him up. I bring my hands to my nose. His smell lingers, cinnamon and cloves.

  I go over to the tray of food, all gone cold. It’s time to eat, and bathe as best I can with the chilled wash water. I need to prepare myself for tomorrow.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  “Look who deigns to grace us with her presence,” Denis exclaims at breakfast, lurching up from his boiled egg to gesture at me. “Sit there, Lady Elanna. Why,” he says to Jahan, “I hardly recognize her from yesterday, do you?”

  Jahan glances up from the preserves. “She was more entertaining in trousers.”

  I feel my eyes narrow—but Jahan is looking away from me, and I can’t let Denis guess that we share a secret. Or that I know the truth about him. I quickly settle myself in the chair Denis indicated I should take. My clean hair is swept up in a loose knot, and Annis left several strands to trail over the shoulders of my gown—a pretty thing woven from dark-blue wool.

  I busy myself with my plate. My midnight snack of congealed soup and cold meat did little to blunt my appetite, and my stomach is awake and eager, even though I can’t help thinking I’m dining with my enemy. I help myself to toast and tea, and a maid brings me two boiled eggs in cups, along with a rasher of bacon.

  Denis watches me, trying to unnerve me. I have to ignore him; otherwise, every time I look in his face I want to scream at him. How could he kill Antoine? I don’t understand what would drive anyone to take someone else’s life merely for power.

  But maybe, if I ignore him, he’ll let slip some evidence.

  “What a well-behaved prisoner,” he says at last, settling back and folding his arms. “I had hoped to give Lord Jahan a better idea of your barbaric Caerisian customs. Speak to us in Caerisian, Lady Elanna.”

  I look up, my mouth full of egg. Is he serious?

  He sweeps his hand through the air. “Go on.”

  I swallow my food. What are the chances Denis knows a single word of Caerisian?

  With deliberation, I say, “It’s only a fool who shows his hand before the game’s played.”

  I watch his face for any sign of comprehension. Nothing. He claps and grins, glancing at Jahan to see how this demonstration goes over.

  “How do you like their savage lingo?”

  In the moment before Denis looked at him, Jahan’s eyes widened. He understood me—he must have taken Caerisian lessons with Finn as well as learning Ereni. Now he merely yawns. “I must say, Lord Denis, it’s a bit early in the morning to listen to such a hideous racket.”

  Denis produces his laugh. “It’s hard on an empty stomach.”

  “I have the strongest stomach of all,” I say in Caerisian. “Eating breakfast with a murderer.”

  Jahan raises his eyebrows meaningfully at me. I suppose I’ve said too much, even if Denis doesn’t understand.

  “That’s quite enough Caerisian,” Denis says, sensitive to Jahan’s reaction even if he doesn’t know my actual words. He puts his shoulder to me, and starts talking to Jahan about how the Ereni soldiers brought civilization to Caeris when they conquered it, effectively cutting me out of the conversation.

  It’s strange to hear the same stories I’ve heard all my life—stories that I now know are lies—coming out of his mouth.

  But at the same time I’m glad. If all Denis wants is to have me speak in Caerisian for his entertainment, I can suffer that—and I will, until I find a way out of here, with Jahan’s help or without it. And with or without proof of Denis’s complicity in Antoine’s death.

  An aide brings in a fresh dispatch of letters. Denis skims them, then snorts. “Have you heard, Lord Jahan? There’s a girl running all over Eren, telling the people the Eyrlais have been stealing from them. Five percent of the crown’s resources go to the people!” he parrots. “If I never hear five percent of anything again in my life, it’ll be too soon.”

  I catch my breath. But he can’t mean Victoire. She’s in hiding—and she’s no rabble-rouser.

  But she kept the secret of her father’s deceit, and the five percent is burned into my mind. She followed me out of Laon. Maybe I don’t know her as well as I thought.

  Jahan pours fresh tea into his cup. “These Ereni women are quite warlike.”

  “Oh, please, this one’s not a warrior. She’s just a nuisance. But now the people are in a lather, fomenting in village squares and making tirades against the queen. I’m sure such a thing never happens in Ida.”

  “Actually, our rhetoricians can be quite outspoken,” Jahan begins.

  But Denis isn’t really interested. He raises his eyebrows at me over the top of his letter. “I don’t suppose this troublesome chit is a friend of yours?”

  I stare back at him. “I doubt I’ve met her. But I certainly wish her the best of luck.”

  “Oh! Oh!” He pretends to stab himself in the chest. “I’m wounded, really I am.” He says to Jahan, “That’s all right. We’ll find another way to make her talk.”

  We do
n’t have to wait long.

  The servants have hardly cleared the breakfast dishes when Denis is out of his chair, herding us out the door, back down the hall to his study. Yesterday’s maps remain spread over the desk. He points at them and looks at me.

  “Read this for me.”

  I stare down at the contoured lines indicating hills and valleys. The town names are written in such a crabbed hand I can scarcely make them out. I lean closer. These can’t all be towns. Within a single hillside, five names collide. It makes little sense—unless the mapmaker was trying to deceive. But I don’t know why anyone would deceive by making up names…

  I press my finger to the name written largest. “This is a town. But I don’t know what the rest are.”

  “You don’t know?” Denis clucks his tongue. “Some Caerisian rebel!” he says to Jahan and the Butcher, who’s just come in. “Tell her what all those names mean, Lord Gilbert.”

  The Butcher comes to stand across the desk from me, cool and professional. “Those place-names belong to hills, streams, trees, and rocks. You see, on this hillside alone, they have named not only a grove but the stream that springs from it, a rock formation, and so forth.”

  I feel a fool for not recognizing this.

  Denis wags a finger at me. “Lady Elanna, you will have to be more useful. If you can’t help us even the smallest bit, then…” He shakes his head and draws the finger across his neck.

  And laughs.

  The Butcher does not laugh. He looks at Denis, and a vein stands out in his temple. His arms are taut, his hands clasped behind his back. He glances at me across the table, assessingly.

  —

  IN THE AFTERNOON, they question me.

  “Tell me, Lady Elanna,” Denis says conversationally. “Where is Fionnlach Dromahair? What’s he doing?”

  Murderer, I think. I turn the ring around on my finger, struggling to put my rage aside; I have to outwit him. In this comfortable study, with its odors of leather and old books, it’s hard to believe I am really in danger of my life or of giving away Caeris’s secrets. And so I say, “I couldn’t be quite sure, but I imagine he’s taking tea about now.”