by Penelope, L.
She cradled her arms to her chest and turned to see the driver in the front seat watching her curiously. Hitching up her chin, she turned back to the house, walking backward a bit to peer in the windows. They were all covered by curtains, offering no glimpse inside.
“I’ll be right back,” she told the driver before taking the path to the driveway. Beyond the house, the gravel drive slanted down quite steeply and ended in a quaint carriage house. The main house had a small backyard with a well-tended garden, each row completely free of weeds and labeled with little white wooden stakes.
She stood trying to imagine her mother here learning to garden from that woman inside, who was the storybook picture of what a grandmother should be, except, of course, for ignoring her grandchild. The windows in the back of the house were all shuttered or draped except for the glass doors leading to the garden.
Jasminda approached cautiously and peered inside. Dark hardwood floors were visible beneath finely woven rugs. Heavy, expensive-looking furniture sat atop them in rich colors and brocades. Her shoulders sagged as she took in what she could from her limited view. She did not bang on the door to request entry. She could break the glass and storm in, but the determination she’d felt moments before fled, leaving only sadness.
A creak sounded as the iron gate opened. Jasminda crouched beside a bush as a door slammed and then an auto pulled up to the carriage house. The driver emerged, a rather slim and short fellow with a black suit and hat, and opened the door for the passenger in the back. Jasminda’s breath caught. The woman coming out of the car was the scarred Sister who had aided the refugees at Baalingrove. It was indeed her Aunt Vanesse.
Vanesse looked back toward the house, and Jasminda held her breath, trying to remain motionless and unobserved. With a final anxious glance, Vanesse followed the driver into the carriage house using the side door. Jasminda peered behind her and darted to the side of the small structure. The door was closed, but a small window was uncovered.
Vanesse was not dressed in the robes of the Sisterhood today. Instead, she wore a knee-length skirt and silk blouse with a stylish fitted hat on her head. She removed her hat, placing it on a cluttered table. The driver had his back to Jasminda, but when he removed his hat, she froze and her breath hitched. The small man was really a woman, who shook out her shoulder-length locks and turned toward Vanesse.
With another furtive glance over her shoulder, Vanesse approached the driver, cupping the woman’s face in her hands and leaning in to kiss her. Jasminda dropped her eyes, guilty for spying on such an intimate stolen moment.
Jack invaded her mind, then—his lips against hers, his body pressed close, the hope that they would not be discovered. All the trouble that would bring.
This house, the wealth—Mama’s family obviously had a privileged place in society. What did they say about their long-lost eldest daughter? Jasminda knew better than to think they’d told the truth about Mama’s marriage to a settler and her half-breed children. They had probably killed her off in their lives long before her actual death. Maybe what her grandmother had slammed the door on wasn’t a real relationship with her flesh and blood kin but just a ghost. Jasminda felt like a ghost spying on her aunt from the shadows.
It seemed these sisters were alike in many ways. Was loving another woman so different from loving a Lagrimari? Both were taboo. And Jasminda was beginning to realize you couldn't choose who you loved.
The house where her mama had grown up looked different to her now. So many secrets, so many falsehoods and betrayals. Jasminda had wanted to make them see her, but did they even see themselves? She’d thought making her family acknowledge the lives of her brothers and her father was what she wanted, but now she just wanted to protect those memories and hold them close to her like armor. Not have them sullied by the cold eyes of a woman who had no regard for her.
She crept back around the house and climbed into the auto.
“Back to the palace, please. There isn’t anything for me here.”
As the Council of Regents meeting bled into its fourth hour, Jack longed for nothing more than to be back in Jasminda’s arms. Her touch still shivered across his skin, and he could swear her scent suffused the air. If he did nothing else but listen to her soft breaths until the day he died, he would not consider it a wasted life.
The reality of the Council Room and the petty squabbling among a group of grown men was cold water thrown on his reverie. His temper flared at the intrusion. The Minister of Finance and the Minister of the Interior bickered like an old married couple and could be counted upon never to agree with each other. Even in a circumstance as dire as imminent war.
Alariq would have been able to follow this miserable meeting quite adeptly, and known just what to say to bring the petty quarreling to an end. It was, after all, what his brother had trained for his whole life. Military training had done nothing to dull Jack’s edges into a tool of political usefulness. His manner was ill-appreciated by the men. Minister Stevenot of the Interior sputtered like a flooded engine when Jack interrupted him.
“I do not want to hear another word about the allowable roof colors in East Rosira. They can paint them pink with blue dots for all I care!” Jack slammed his hand on the table; several of the old men jumped. “How much longer must we go on discussing this ridiculous minutiae? Objections to the fabric of the shipbuilder’s guild’s new uniforms? Reshodding the mounts of the dock guard? None of this will matter in mere days when the Mantle comes down, yet you all refuse to seriously discuss the most pressing issue.”
The faces around the table resembled fish, wide-eyed with their mouths opening and closing mutely.
“Your Grace,” Pugeros, the Minister of Finance, said, his face taking on a fatherly quality that held more than a little condescension. “Lagrimar has given no indication they plan to attack. And it has only been five years since the last breach. They have always needed far longer than that to build the dark magic needed to cross the Mantle.”
“Why would they warn us of an attack? I have seen their preparations, Minister. I am warning you. And the time between the breaches has grown shorter and shorter. They are finding new ways to use their dark magic, as you call it. We need to inform the people, especially those near the border. Perhaps even evacuate.”
“That would be extreme, Your Grace,” Stevenot said. “We do not want to alarm the populace and cause a panic. Our superior technology and skilled army will easily defeat their witchcraft as we have done in the past.”
Red stained Jack’s vision. “Easily?” he said through clenched teeth. No one in this room aside from him had ever seen combat.
“The last breach was barely even three months long.” Stevenot turned away as if he’d made his point. As if three months in the trenches was merely an extended vacation. These men hadn’t the faintest clue.
War. The exact cause of the conflict all those years ago was lost to history. Its absence conspicuous since such careful records existed from that point on. Each breach was a devastation. Early on, the Lagrimari use of Earthsong resulted in heavy Elsiran losses. They, in turn, had responded with innovation, better weapons, more artful strategies, but by no means did that guarantee their victory.
“Have you forgotten the Iron War? The Princeling’s Scourge?” Jack looked around the room. “Many of you were alive when they destroyed the citadel, killing thousands of civilians in the borderlands. Ignoring this will not make it go away.”
“The farmers will not leave,” the Minister of Agriculture said, shrugging his shoulders. “They would much rather die on their land.”
“Then may they find serenity in the World After.” Jack leaned back. “There are thousands of borderlanders that can and must be saved. This threat cannot be taken lightly. The Lagrimari have found some new way to weaken the Mantle. There are more and more cracks appearing, and in a matter of days, it will fall. We will defend our lands as we always have, but we’ve never faced the True Father on Elsiran soil before.”
Voices around the table exploded.
“You will do no such thing!”
“Presposterous!”
“How dare you!”
Minister Nirall’s voice cut through the din. “The Council serves at the pleasure of the Prince Regent. In times of war, it is fully within his right to dissolve this Council if and when—” Shouts and censure drowned him out.
Lizvette’s father, Meeqal Nirall, was Jack’s favorite Council member, a former professor and the Minister of Education and Innovation, he was most often the voice of compassion and reason.
“Listen,” Nirall said, his voice rising over the others. “We must not let it get to that point. Let us hear him out.”
“Thank you,” Jack said.
The man nodded.
“If we evacuate the borderlanders, where will they go? How will we feed them?” the Minister of Agriculture cut in.
“Yes, these refugees”—Pugeros spat the word out like he would a rotten bite of food—“are already straining the Principality’s coffers. With this year’s abominable harvest and the increase on import tariffs out of Yaly, we are already facing difficult financial waters. The latest debacle with the King of Raun means an even more dire situation for our economy. If we reduce the refugee rations, or refuse them entry entirely, we would be in a better position to care for our own people.”
“There is international precedent,” Stevenot said. “We are under no obligation to burden ourselves with their care.”
“This is not a financial question, but a moral one,” said Nirall. “They are fleeing a brutal dictator. We must treat them the same way we’d treat our own women and children. There are enough resources to care for them all.”
“Minister Nirall.” The low timbre of Zavros Calladeen’s voice resonated as he addressed his uncle formally. Calladeen, the youngest on the Council save Jack, owed his position as Minister of Foreign Affairs not to his uncle’s influence but to his own keen intelligence, politicking, and ruthless ambition. “I’ve seen this camp, and much as I would like to feel sorry for these refugees, I am moved by something less like pity and more like suspicion to see them crossing our borders in such increasing numbers.”
“Surely, you do not suppose that those miserable creatures could be spies? I’m told they practically kiss Elsiran soil when they arrive,” Nirall replied.
“Never forget their witchcraft,” said Calladeen. “This Earthsong they possess is dangerous. What is to stop them from bringing down a violent storm or a rockslide or a fire? We cannot afford to let our guard down.”
Jack simmered just below a full boil. He’d never understood what Alariq saw in Calladeen. “Earthsong also healed me. On more than one occasion. And the number of refugees who even have their Songs is small. The True Father has drained many of his populace of their power. Is there a chance that there are spies among them? Yes. But does that mean we turn our backs on those seeking aid?” Jack shook his head. “A Lagrimari man is the only reason the coming attack is not a surprise. Instead of treating the refugees as enemy agents, we should be trying to learn from them, gaining additional intelligence, and working together to find a way to stop the True Father.”
“That is a naive way of looking at things, Your Grace,” Calladeen said haughtily. “The Lagrimari are not tacticians. Additional intelligence has never defeated them. Superior force, training, and discipline have done that for nearly five hundred years.”
“Things are changing, Minister Calladeen. My time embedded with the enemy showed me that. We are on the cusp of something different.”
“Perhaps your time with the enemy has changed you, Your Grace,” Pugeros said. Every head turned to him. “The Lagrimari girl staying in the palace?”
Heads swiveled back to Jack, who gritted his teeth. “She is Elsiran-born. She has Elsiran kin, and in this city.”
“Perhaps it would be better for her to reside with them instead of here. She may be as you say, but the appearance of the situation is less than ideal,” said Pugeros.
“The situation is not up for discussion.” Jack shot to his feet. “Order the voluntary evacuation of the borderlands. Stevenot, review my request for wartime funds and find the money. Both for the army and the refugees. No excuses. Minister Nirall, as there are many children in the camps, begin plans for educating them and teaching them our language. Gentleman, these are war refugees fleeing the most brutal dictator our world has ever seen. We are honorable Elsirans. Let’s start behaving as such.”
He slammed out of the room amidst a chorus of grumbles and stalked down the hall.
Jack slipped into the side corridor and over to the unused back passageways. A steep staircase, coated in dust, took him up to the roof of the palace. He’d come here often as a child to escape the tense misery unfolding between his parents and to take in the spectacular view.
The palace sat at Rosira’s highest point, backing up to the steep rise of jagged mountains separating the capital from the rest of the country. In the distance, the ocean sparkled in the afternoon light. Beyond the endless waves lay worlds he couldn’t fathom. Then again, he was having enough trouble understanding his home country.
The formal jacket he’d worn to the Council meeting chafed at his neck; he pulled on the collar. How was he going to do this for the rest of his life?
He stood there regarding the city for so long that the sun began its evening journey home. A hand on his shoulder pulled him from his musings.
“Found my hiding place, did you, old man?” he said, turning around.
Usher smiled. “Not very difficult since it hasn’t changed in fifteen years.”
“What can I say, I’m a man of habit.” Jack shrugged then sighed, leaning back against the railing. “Why am I called a prince if I can make no moves without the assent of the Council? And why do they oppose me at every turn?” He dropped his head into his hand.
“They will come around,” Usher said, placing a comforting hand on his arm.
Jack snorted. “They treat me like a child. I’m four years older than Alariq was when he took office.”
“And I’m sure they treated him the same.”
“I doubt it. I’m almost certain he never had to threaten to use Prince’s Right to get the Council to take action. Those old men are so stubborn and callous—”
Usher straightened. “I don’t recall Alariq doing quite this much whining.”
Jack frowned.
“If you’re quite done with your tantrum, young sir, you have dinner with General Verados in an hour.”
He had neither been whining nor having a tantrum, but the old man was right: he’d never seen Alariq moping about. Duty was duty, and there was little he could do now but square his shoulders and steel himself to step back into his role. Perhaps he could get some advice from the retired general on his strategy for dealing with Lagrimar.
He followed Usher to the far side of the roof, where the proper entrance was, though he missed a step, stumbling when he saw a massive shape covered in a tarp.
Usher followed his line of sight and sighed.
“I thought it was destroyed,” Jack said through gritted teeth.
“Only the front of the craft sustained any damage. The day after the crash, technicians arrived from Yaly to repair it.”
Jack approached the contraption and began pulling the tarp down.
“It’s been fully inspected. You don’t have to—”
“I just want to see it.” With a final tug, the tarp fell away, revealing the airship his brother had died in.
The great balloon portion that when filled with gas, lifted the machine into the air lay on its side. Heavy, reinforced cables attached it to the carriage. The inside offered seating for four, plus the pilot’s chair behind a great steering wheel.
Jack reached out for the polished wood of the
carriage but drew his fingers away before they made contact. The windows sparkled deviously. Even the propeller attached to the front had been buffed to gleaming. From the outside, it was remarkable. It did not look like a coffin.
“What in all that is sacred possessed him to pilot this monstrosity?” A cold fear pummeled his gut.
“Alariq did not share your aversion to heights. He enjoyed every moment he spent in the air.”
“I am not averse to heights. Are we not standing on the roof?”
Usher’s eyebrows rose. “Yes, the roof of a building that is only three-stories high. Would you care to go to the clock tower and have this conversation?” He pointed to the tower below in the town square.
Jack’s eyes widened, but he swatted away the fear. “I’ll have you know I climbed a mountain three times, old man. Once with a bullet in me. Though I did manage to be pushed off a cliff by an avalanche for my trouble.” He shivered at the memory. “There’s nothing wrong with wanting to stay on solid ground. If men had been intended to fly we would come with wings. Have someone take this thing away from here. It won’t see any use from me.”
Usher nodded, holding his peace for once. Jack stalked down the stairs and back into the thick of his life.
Jasminda stood at the intersection of two hallways. How was it possible that every corridor in the entire palace looked exactly alike? After her disastrous attempt to visit her family, she’d returned to the palace where the driver had dropped her off at the side entrance next to the vehicle depot. She’d hoped to be able navigate back to her rooms, but before she’d made it very far, her stomach had rumbled. With no intention of attending any more official dinners and unsure of the meal schedule here, she’d changed course for the kitchens. However, her confidence in her ability to manage the often crisscrossing, often dead-end passageways of the palace had been optimistic at best. Swiveling her head back and forth at the T-shaped intersection, she searched for a clue.