by Jasmine Walt
Good. She let out a silent breath of relief and opened the door with magic. Inside, two ladies-in-waiting sat by the fire knitting. They cried out in alarm when Tariel entered, one of them dropping the sweater she was working on into her lap.
“What are you doing in here, boy?” the one in the pink gown demanded, rising to her feet. “No one is allowed in the queen’s chambers save the royal family and her ladies!”
“I’m sorry,” Tariel said, closing the distance. A quick touch of her palm against the woman’s arm sent her to the ground, snoring before her head hit the floor.
The other woman backed away, her eyes wide. “Witch!” she accused, pointing at Tariel with a shaking finger. She snatched up a poker from the fireplace and jabbed at Tariel, nearly skewering her.
“If you insist,” Tariel said with a sigh. She grabbed the woman’s arm and sent a pulse of magic in her, then gently helped her to the ground when she swayed.
“What is all that ruckus?” a feeble voice called through the door to Tariel’s left. “Are we under attack?”
Tariel strode to the door and flung it open. “No,” she said, striding in. The queen was huddled in bed, her spindly fingers clutching an embroidery hoop as if it would shield her from harm. Age had not been kind to her—her hair was nearly white, her thin face lined, and though her large, pale green eyes had likely once been quite striking, they now looked sunken and eerie in her face. “But you will answer my questions.”
She threw off her illusion, and the queen sagged, her eyes bulging.
“Tariel,” she whispered, as if she were seeing a ghost. There was not a hint of warmth or affection in the lines of her face. “So, you are here in the capital. Sir Jerrold will be pleased to have your presence here confirmed.”
Tariel flinched at the queen’s harsh words. “You would have me burned at the stake?” she demanded. “Even though I am your ward?”
“My ward?” The queen drew herself upright, her nostrils flaring. “I handed you off to Lady Tyrook so that I would not have to bother with the likes of you again. You were always meant to spend your wretched life at the Tyrook estate, so that no one would discover the truth about you. Why do you think I never allowed you to marry?”
Tariel’s eyes burned hot with tears. “If that was the case, then you should have responded to Lady Tyrook’s latest letter,” she said hotly. “She tried to marry me off to a man who has killed two of his wives.”
“I wish she’d succeeded,” Lady Tyrook said bitterly. “From all the accounts I’ve heard about you, it seems that you inherited the magic of your bloodline after all. I should have known—you look just like your hussy of a mother.”
Tariel reeled back, stunned at that revelation. “Who was she?” she demanded, pouncing on that tidbit of information. “Are you saying my mother was Maroyan?” And who was her father, then?
“I am under no obligation to tell you anything,” the queen said stiffly. “And in any case, what does it matter? You are about to be burned at the stake.”
She reached for the bell pull to her left, but Tariel grabbed her stick-like arm before she could tug on it. “I did not come all this way just to leave empty-handed,” she insisted, her blood boiling. Magic crackled at her fingertips, and the color leeched out of the queen’s face completely as a spark touched her pale skin.
“Heathen!” she screeched, pulling her arm from Tariel’s grip in a show of strength that surprised her. She lunged for the bell pull again, and this time managed to get her fingers around it. “Guards!”
The sound echoed through the hallway, and Tariel’s heart nearly jumped out of her chest. Spinning about, she fled from the room before the guards could arrive, then pressed herself into an alcove halfway down the hall as footsteps rushed across the stone. Holding herself perfectly still, she used an illusion to blend in with the wall, and held her breath as a servant raced past her.
I have to get out of here, she thought, darting out of her hiding spot once the coast was clear. It was only a matter of time before the servant alerted the guards, and if she was not clear of the castle walls before Sir Jerrold was summoned, she was doomed.
25
“You did what?”
“I know, I know,” Tariel said, holding up a hand as if she could stave off Calrain’s anger. Her beautiful features were pinched with guilt as she confronted Calrain and Riann in the parlor room. “It was foolish.”
“Foolish?” Riann repeated, his eyes wide with anger. “We have been worried sick! You were gone when we awoke, without leaving so much as a note, and you didn’t return for hours!”
“I had to make sure I wasn’t being followed before I came back here,” Tariel said, sitting down on the sofa. She looked exhausted, her eyes heavy with defeat, and Calrain softened a bit despite himself. “I didn’t want to put you in any more danger than I already have.”
“I just wish you would have told us where you were going,” Calrain said, sitting down next to Tariel and taking her hand in his. Her fingers were clammy, and he pressed them to his lips, hoping to drive some of the chill from her. “We could have come with you.”
“I would have, if I’d still been here,” Tariel assured them. “My visit to the castle was spur of the moment, and by the time I realized what I was about to do, it was too late to come back to the mansion and get you.”
“Well, at least you did get your audience with the queen,” Riann said, joining them. He still seemed annoyed, but his jaw had unclenched, and his eyes were no longer blazing fire. “Did you learn anything useful?”
“The queen refused to tell me who my parents were,” Tariel said, “but she did say something interesting. She told me that I was the spitting image of my mother.”
Calrain blinked. “But that must mean your mother was Maroyan, and not your father, as we had previously thought.”
“But that does not make any sense,” Riann protested. “No mages from the Empire have dared cross over into Fjordland territory, not since the ill-fated marriage of Prince Hersian and Princess Allia.”
Calrain paused at that. Princess Allia had been a Maroyan royal wed to the king’s brother after a passionate love affair that had ended in death, at least according to the stories he had heard. “I wonder if your mother could have been one of Princess Allia’s ladies-in-waiting, brought with her from the Empire,” he said. “Perhaps she had a dalliance with someone at court, and you were the result.”
Riann nodded. “That would make a lot of sense,” he said. “A Fjordland noble would be hard-pressed to acknowledge a half-breed daughter, especially one born out of wedlock. It is very possible that his family forced him into giving Tariel up.”
Tariel smiled bitterly. “It would be nice to think that my father would have wanted me, but the likelihood is that he rejected me, just as the queen has.” She bit her lip. “Although this doesn’t quite explain why the queen was my warden. How am I connected with her?”
“Maybe you are a by-blow of the king.” Riann’s eyes flew wide at the thought. “That would certainly explain the queen’s hostility toward you.”
Zolotais popped out of the abacus, appearing in a shimmer of golden light. “Your theory makes little sense,” she said primly. “A woman from the Maroyan Empire with strong magic such as you have would not have served as a mere lady-in-waiting to the princess. And besides, I cannot imagine that Princess Allia would have been unaware if one of her ladies did fall pregnant and give birth to a female child. That child would have been jealously guarded, perhaps even sent back to the Maroyan Empire with its mother for proper rearing. Certainly, it would not have been abandoned, as you were.” She gave Tariel a sympathetic look. “What has happened to you is an unforgivable tragedy.”
Tariel’s eyes shone with tears, but she blinked them back. “Maybe so, but my life has still only begun, and I do not intend to spend the rest of it in misery.” She clasped Calrain’s and Riann’s hands, meeting their gazes steadily. “It is high time we left. Pack your things, for
tonight, we ride for Carliss.”
26
As Tariel and her men prepared to flee the country, Yarim sat in the waiting room outside Prince Raglar’s study, mulling over everything he had learned in the past twenty-four hours.
He had spent quite a bit of time going over Fjordland’s recent history with the Maroyan Empire. Everyone knew about the epic love story between Prince Hersian, the king’s younger brother, and Princess Allia, favorite niece to the Maroyan Empress. The two of them had met at court, and, according to the stories, it was love at first sight. Everyone who saw them together knew they were soulmates, and though both the Fjordlanders and the Maroyans had misgivings, both sides knew there was no keeping them apart. Reluctantly, the two countries allowed them to wed, forging an uneasy alliance between two countries who considered each other uncultured barbarians or decadent heathens, respectively.
Unfortunately, the love story had not ended well. Princess Allia had died giving birth to Prince Raglar, and Hersian, in deep mourning, had retreated from court life, taking up residence in his estate on the west coast, and later battling the sea lords. His son had come with him for a time, but after he’d reached the age of ten, King Hamin had begun summoning him to court frequently to learn the ways of court and for tutoring. With Queen Relissa’s five children turning out to be either stillborn or female, Raglar was the only heir. Yarim had seen him once or twice at various social functions, and though he had inherited his father’s blue eyes and tall frame, his hair was jet black and his skin far darker than the average Fjordlander, a clear sign of his Maroyan blood.
There must be some connection between Tariel and Raglar’s mother, Yarim told himself. He had made some discreet inquiries, but no one seemed to remember anything about either the Maroyan princess or her ladies. With Prince Hersian off fighting the sea lords on the western coast, his son, Raglar, was the only person he could get information from.
“The prince will see you now,” a guard said, stepping into the room. Yarim rose and followed the guard into a study. He was surprised at how large the room was, the walls jam-packed with shelves and shelves of books. Aside from the Brothers of Roisen, Fjordlanders generally did not prize books, and yet there sat Prince Raglar behind his desk, pouring over a manuscript.
“Ah, Sir Yarim.” The prince smiled, flashing perfect white teeth. He was quite a handsome specimen, and attracted the attention of many of the ladies at court despite his dark complexion. The dark blue jerkin and trousers he wore were expertly tailored to show off his broad shoulders and powerful physique, hard-earned from his days fighting the Western sea lords. From what Yarim had heard, Raglar had distinguished himself as a brave and fast warrior, fighting alongside his father in many campaigns. “I have been wondering if we would finally meet.”
“Oh?” Yarim asked as he took a seat. The chair was a bit hard for his tastes, and he imagined the prince didn’t entertain very many visitors here. “Because of our shared heritage?”
“Indeed.” Prince Raglar gave him a half-smile. “Most of the time I have to pretend that it does not exist, but I have always harbored a secret longing to visit the Empire and see my mother’s homeland.”
“I hope you do,” Yarim said sincerely. “It is a wonderful country, and I am certain the empress has been wanting to see her great-nephew.”
“Indeed.”
The prince’s blue gaze shuttered, and Yarim knew he had hit a sore spot. He imagined that Queen Relissa would sooner die than allow the Maroyan empress to set foot in Castle Kalsing, and that the king was not keen on sending his sole heir off to the Empire.
“Now, what is the purpose of your visit?”
“I have heard rumors that a mage is being hunted here in the capital,” Yarim said, “and that she was spotted here in the castle walls today. Is it true?”
Raglar grimaced. “Yes,” he said. “The guards are still on high alert. The captain is furious she slipped in and out undetected. Why are you asking?” His eyes narrowed. “Are you seeking to assist her?”
“I would never presume to break your laws while taking advantage of your country’s hospitality,” Yarim lied smoothly, “but I must admit I am curious as to this Tariel’s origins. By all accounts, she sounds as if she has Maroyan blood, just as you do, and I cannot help but wonder if there is a connection.”
Raglar scowled. “I do hope you have not shared this idea with anyone outside this room.”
“Of course not,” Yarim said, pretending to be affronted. “I am not without tact.”
Raglar relaxed. “I admit Tariel’s situation is quite strange. She is technically a ward of the queen, my aunt, and yet I know nothing of her origins and have never met her. She was sent away from the castle a good six months before I was born, after all.”
Yarim frowned. “Were any of your mother’s ladies-in-waiting pregnant?”
“I would not know, though my aunt and uncle might, or even my father,” Raglar said. “They would become very suspicious if I asked those questions, however, and I do not wish to bring trouble your way.”
“I appreciate that,” Yarim said, “but I cannot help but look out for the welfare of my countrymen, especially one who is rumored to have magic. It sounds like Tariel’s only crime is being born in the wrong country—if she had been raised in the Empire, she would be taught to wield her magic and use it to help others, not suppress it for fear of being run to ground like a rabbit.”
Something that looked like regret flashed in Raglar’s eyes. “I imagine she is trying to make it to the Empire now,” he said, “but unfortunately, I can’t see any chance of her succeeding. Sir Jerrold will catch her, and she will be executed along with her allies. Her existence has become so publicized at this point that there is no way my family could intervene even if we wanted to.”
“If we wanted to?” Yarim repeated, starting to get annoyed. “Would you really stand back and watch an innocent woman burn at the stake?”
“I cannot afford to sympathize with her publicly, especially with my own Maroyan ancestry,” Raglar said, his eyes glittering. “And I would suggest you keep your own sympathies to yourself, lest you find yourself burning right along with her.”
Yarim gritted his teeth. “Has it occurred to you, Your Highness,” he growled, “that you have magical blood running through your own veins?”
Raglar stiffened. “I am no witch,” he protested.
“No, you wouldn’t be, as a man,” Yarim agreed, “but everyone knew your mother had strong magic. What if you have daughters, and that magic is passed down to them? Will you wait until they are grown to execute them, or shall you burn them while they are still squalling in their cradles?”
Raglar recoiled. “I would never do such a thing! I…I admit I have not considered the possibility, but of course I would not murder my own children.”
“And yet you are perfectly willing to stand by and let someone else’s child be murdered.” Yarim shook his head in disgust, rising to his feet. “I believe I have heard all I can stomach from you today, Your Highness. Good day.”
He stalked out of the room, frustrated and angry. Prince Raglar was obviously more tolerant than most Fjordlanders, but he was still as stubborn and ignorant as the rest of them. He could not trust the prince to keep this conversation private; there was always a chance that he could tell the guards of Yarim’s interest in Tariel, if only to keep Yarim from telling others about the prince’s own sympathies. Boarding his carriage, he ordered the driver to take him to the docks. He would sail for Carliss tonight, and finally be rid of these barbaric people.
The cold wind snapped at the edges of his coat as Yarim stalked up the boardwalk, heading for the Jamuna, his baghlah. One of the sailors saw him coming and went to alert the captain.
“Good evening, Sir Yarim,” Captain Sarlian said, doffing his hat. “What can I do for you?”
“I would like to depart for Carliss as soon as possible,” Yarim said, sweeping his gaze across the deck. The ship was in impeccable co
ndition, though of course he expected nothing less for a crew as intensely loyal as Captain Sarlian’s. “Can the ship be readied to leave by morning?”
The captain’s face fell. “I was afraid you’d say that.” He pulled a spyglass from his coat pocket and handed it to Yarim. “Take a look.”
Yarim put the spyglass to his eye and looked out at the ocean. His heart sank as he picked out icebergs floating in the distance, visible even in the darkness.
“Winter has come earlier than we thought,” the captain said grimly.
“Indeed.” Yarim closed the spyglass and handed it back to the captain. The eastern passage was frozen, the ice making it impossible for the ship to safely navigate the waters. He was too late.
27
“Thank the gods,” Riann grumbled as they trudged into the inn. “I thought we would never get out of the cold.”
Tariel nodded, silently agreeing with him. Clenching her jaw against her chattering teeth, she stomped her snow-caked boots on the mat, then approached the woman seated behind the desk just inside the entrance.
“We’d like a room for the night,” she said, placing a coin on the wooden surface.
The woman’s eyebrows rose as she surveyed the trio. “Just one?”
“We do not have much coin,” Tariel said. “One room will be sufficient for the three of us.”
“I see,” the woman said, her expression softening as she looked them up and down. Tariel had disguised herself as a mother, and Calrain and Riann as her two young sons, hoping the innkeeper might take pity on them. “I can give you one with two beds, and bring up one of our spare mattresses to put on the floor. Will the three of you be needing supper as well?”