by Penelope, L.
Wetness on her shoulder brought back her awareness. Nash stood over her, rain dripping from his jacket. He held out a hand. She took it and struggled to her feet. Her legs were stiff from kneeling for who knows how long.
The soldiers parted for them as Nash led her back to the town car. Jasminda looked over her shoulder. The rest of the crowd had long ago disappeared into their tents; all that remained was a ghost town.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Bedlam Strikes Refugee Camp
(continued from page 1)
An ambassador from the palace to the refugee camp, Ms. ul-Sarifor was a witness to the attack by the refugees on Elsiran military personnel. While she did not take part in the attempted mutiny, a witness reports that her presence may have inflamed tensions and emboldened the Lagrimari to pursue their assault.
According to sources within the palace, Ms. ul-Sarifor is purported to be an Elsiran citizen of mixed heritage and was specifically requested by the Prince Regent to initiate diplomacy with the foreigners on our soil.
Jack crumpled the thin newsprint in his fist. He knew very well there had been no attempted mutiny. The evening papers had gone from printing gossip and long-ago scandals to outright lies. He regretted more than ever not being able to make it to Jasminda’s rooms the night before. Palace business had kept him up late into the night, and he’d fallen sleep at his desk, surrounded by paperwork. He hadn’t realized she’d been so close to the child’s shooting.
News of the incident had enraged Jack the moment he’d heard. The captain had been arrested immediately, and while the boy had made a full recovery due to the camp’s Earthsingers, Jack was resolved to court martial the offending officer. A decision that would no doubt be met with opposition.
The door to his office opened, and Usher stepped in. Faint music filtered in through the open door.
“You will have to at least make an appearance, young sir.” Usher stood looking reprovingly at him.
“I don’t know why they didn’t cancel the bloody thing. Now is no time for a ball.”
“Third Breach Day falls on the same day every year. They cannot cancel an entire ball because the Prince Regent is in a foul temper.”
Jack stood, rolling down his shirtsleeves and buttoning them. “Don’t I have the right to be in a temper when unarmed children are being shot? When this entire country seems to have fallen victim to lunacy? At what point, I ask you, am I permitted to be upset?”
Usher picked up Jack’s discarded formal dinner jacket and held it out for him. He slipped his arms through and focused on working up some joviality for the ball he was being forced to attend. It wouldn’t do for him to scowl his way through, giving more fodder for the papers. Only one thing would truly make him smile, though.
“Is she coming?” he asked, unable to keep the hope from his voice.
“Would it be wise for her to?”
Jack’s shoulders slumped.
“She would prefer not to be at the center of any undue attention. Isn’t that what you agreed to?”
“I know, I know. It’s just . . .” He sighed and checked his appearance in the mirror. He looked tired, older than he had even a week ago. For a moment, he had an inkling of how this position could have turned his father into a brute. Jack could feel his edges hardening. The bit of himself that he’d always held back when he’d been in the army, that person he would have been if he’d been born to a baker or a farmer had always remained inside him, catching the odd glimpse of sunlight in stolen moments when he hadn’t had to flex his muscles as the High Commander. But that hidden self was now being choked. The only times he could seem to breathe anymore were when he was with Jasminda, and even then they had to remain hidden, secret. He couldn’t acknowledge anything true about himself, and he was afraid it was changing him.
He stalked down the hallways toward the cacophony of the ball. The ballroom had been decorated, somewhat garishly, in orange, the color of Third Breach Day. Each of the seven breaches had a holiday attached to them, initially as a memorial for all that had been lost in the wars, but more recently it was just an excuse for a celebration. None were as lavish as the yearly Festival of the Founders where all work ceased for three days, but each Breach Day was commemorated by excessive decorations in the color of the holiday and a palace ball for the aristocracy.
Jack entered the corridor outside the rear of the ballroom where a dozen butlers were organizing trays of appetizers. The lead butler did a double take and rushed over, admonishing him, in the most respectful way, for being in the servants’ hall. Jack brushed off the man’s request to stop the band and make a formal announcement of the Prince Regent’s arrival.
“I just want to watch for a bit,” Jack said. “I promise you can announce me once this dance is finished. I’d hate to interrupt.” The butler’s obsequious expression barely hid his displeasure at this interruption to the normal order of things, but he backed off, allowing Jack to peek through the curtains separating the hall from the ballroom.
This was the vantage from where he’d watched these events when he was too young to attend and still longed to. The elegance, the glamor—long ago he’d found them fascinating. Now all he wanted to do was escape.
The band played one of the up-tempo, syncopated melodies that had become popular of late. Couples on the dance floor marched back and forth to the beat of the music. He wasn’t the best at these modern dances but enjoyed them more than the tamer, boring classic steps.
A delicate fragrance reached his nostrils, and for a moment, his heart rose in his chest. But the light feminine scent wasn’t Jasminda. He turned to find Lizvette standing next to him.
“How did I know I’d find you hiding back here?” she said, a smile on her lips. There was still tension around her eyes, but Jack knew that would take time to fade.
“What can I say? I’m terribly predictable.”
She stepped to him, linking an arm through his and peering out at the crowded dance floor. “Perhaps consistent is a better word.”
“Yes, I far prefer that. And I’m not hiding. I’m biding my time.”
She chuckled and pulled him toward the doorway. “Come, Your Grace. There is no time like the present. And yes, I would love to dance.”
He barely masked his grimace and followed her out past the bewildered lead butler just as the band finished the current song. The man scampered up to the microphone on the bandstand and rushed through the recitation of Jack’s titles at top speed as all present bowed.
Jack suppressed a groan as the band started in on a tame, traditional melody. He danced the long-practiced steps with Lizvette, holding her stiffly. Just beyond the dance floor, glass doors opened to the terrace and gardens beyond. A cool breeze filtered in, reminding him of his time in the mountains.
He could almost imagine he was holding Jasminda. They had never danced, though. Perhaps he would have a phonograph delivered to her rooms so he could hold her against him and feel her heartbeat as they moved in time to the music. The thought loosened the tension that was binding him. He would dance a few more songs then steal away to be with her.
“My father came to see you, did he not?”
Jack tuned back into the room, almost having forgotten it was Lizvette he held. “Ah, yes. He told you about that. I’m sorry he had to bother you with that business. Don’t worry. The thought never crossed my mind.”
She grew rigid beneath his fingertips. “Would it be so bad?” Sad eyes blinked up at him, and he missed a step, nearly bumping into a burly man dancing inelegantly beside him.
“What are you saying?” He was barely able to get the words out through his shock.
“I know the press has been harsh . . . with everything about your mother and this dreadful business with the Lagrimari. I just— Well, perhaps Father is right. Perhaps I can help.”
Her face was open and hopeful. He couldn’t sense any guile there, but her words were madness.
“What of Alariq? His memory?”
She l
owered her head. “I will always hold Alariq’s memory dear. He was truly one of a kind. But wouldn’t he want you to be at your best advantage? I think he would want this.”
Jack snorted. “My brother would not so much as let me borrow a pair of his shoes, much less his future wife.”
“Alariq is dead.” Her voice was clipped. “And I am not a pair of shoes.” The eyes staring up at him were full of hurt.
“Of course not, Lizvette. I didn’t mean to say— I only meant that — Wouldn’t Alariq have wanted for you to find love again? Happiness? Not just sacrifice yourself to aid my popularity.”
Her expression melted as she looked up at him. “Love?” She said the word like it was a curiosity, some foreign species of fruit that had appeared on her table. Her hand on his arm squeezed gently, then turned into almost a caress. Discomfort swirled within him. “Do you not think something could grow? Here?” She placed a hand on his heart.
The music stopped, and the other couples on the dance floor clapped. Jack drew away from Lizvette, from the unwelcome pressure of her hand on his chest, and turned to give polite applause, as well. He used the moment to gather his thoughts. She was in mourning, perhaps confused. He and Alariq were not much alike, but perhaps she was only grasping for the last threads of him left. He'd known her his whole life . . . at least he thought he knew her.
He bowed to her. “Thank you for the dance.” Ignoring the question in her eyes, he rushed off the dance floor to stand near the doors leading to the terrace. The collar of his shirt constricted like a noose. He longed for fresh air to breathe.
“Your Grace,” a voice called out behind him. He turned to find a cluster of men from the Merchants’ Board regarding him expectantly.
He could see now how the conversation would go: A few minutes of pleasantries, how lovely the ballroom was decorated, how fine the musicians. Then, possibly a round of complaints when he inquired after their families—a son too enthralled by the weekly radio dramas for their liking or a daughter being courted by an unsuitable beau. Then, far too quickly, they would get around to what they really wanted to talk to him about. Some favor or request, with just a nudge so that he recalled how useful their support was and thinly veiled threats of the damage that would take place if that support were withdrawn. Nothing overt, but enough pressure exerted on any joint could eventually cause a break.
The men wrangled from him a promise to consider a proposal to reduce worker wages. He didn’t tell them that as soon as the plan escaped their lips he did consider it . . . and found it untenable. No, he smiled and nodded, shook hands and wished them back to wherever they’d come from as quickly as possible. Just when he thought the Queen had finally smiled upon him and the conversation had reached its death throes, a rotund character called Dursall spoke up.
“Quite a shame what happened to that little grol boy yesterday.”
Jack’s jaw clenched at the epithet.
“Well, with so many of them there, something like that was bound to happen,” a wine importer named Pindeet said.
“I don’t know,” said Dursall. “I don’t suppose a grol is any more likely to commit violence than, say, an Udlander. If they were brought up in a proper environment, I’d think you could almost entirely erase their more barbaric tendencies.” The gathered men nodded in agreement. “Speaking of which, what’s this I read about an ambassador to the refugees? A Lagrimari woman raised in Elsira?”
Jack chose his words very carefully. “She is Elsiran. Born of a settler and a woman of the Sisterhood.”
“Quite unusual,” Dursall said. “But it proves my point. Perhaps it is in large part to the gift of half her parentage, but from all accounts she is well spoken and well groomed. I daresay almost fit for polite society. How do you find her, Your Grace?”
Eight pairs of eyes were trained on him. He tasted each word on his tongue before allowing it to leave his mouth. “In truth, I don’t know her that well. In the handful of times in which I’ve made her acquaintance, I’ve found her to be quite . . . acceptable.” He swallowed.
The conversation continued for a few minutes but was impossible for him to follow. He regretted the words as soon as they’d left his mouth, but what was he to say? To mention that he was in a constant state of longing for her touch, that a day without seeing her was incomplete, that she was the most fearless and impressive woman he had ever encountered would have been more than these old hogs needed to know. Could it ever be enough that he knew? That he had these feelings very near to spilling over inside him with no outlet?
He was about to slip out to the terrace when an elderly woman dripping in diamonds, the wife of a former Council member, stopped him to complain about her neighbor's roof. Jack looked longingly at the doors to freedom before plastering on a smile.
She had only wanted to watch, perhaps from a balcony where she would not be spotted, but the ballroom had only one floor. The best place to observe without being seen was from the shadows of the terrace. The billowing folds of the curtains hid her body, clad in the ball gown Nadal had insisted she put on, just in case she changed her mind about attending. The dress was midnight blue and let her fade into the night. She was a ghost and felt as diaphanous as one, as though her existence was mere myth. Jack’s words to those men echoed in her head and seized her heart in an icy grip.
Last night had been the first night without him—the first of many she would surely experience. Soon she wouldn’t even be able to watch him in secret. He would be only a memory.
A voice from behind startled her. “Not going in?” Calladeen’s low timbre raised gooseflesh on her arms.
“No. A bit crowded for me,” Jasminda said, keeping her back to the man.
“I can imagine.”
She turned at his condescending tone. With a glare, she shouldered past him and dashed down the short staircase to the garden. A nearly full moon hung overhead, outshining the lanterns hung every metre along the gravel paths. Calladeen’s slow footsteps clicked behind her on the steps. At the bottom, she turned to face him.
“What do you want?” she bit out.
“A young woman should not be walking the exterior of the palace unescorted. Even here there are unsavory characters around.” He spread his arms to indicate the potential villains lurking about, but the only unsavory person here was him. “I’m sure our Prince Regent would never forgive me if harm were to befall you.”
A blade of fear jabbed her, but she straightened her shoulders and stood tall. She had only to scream and palace guards would come running. Not to mention the open doors of the ballroom just above them. Calladeen would not dare make good on his subtle threat, if indeed that’s what it was.
“I appreciate your concern for my welfare, but I am in no need of escort from you.”
He quirked an eyebrow. “You have had a stimulating few days here, I’m told.”
She remained silent. Surely he could not be so indelicate as to be discussing what she thought he was.
“The incident at the refugee camp? According to the paper, you were quite near the action.”
She gripped the fabric of her dress in tight fists to stop the shaking of her hands as the images flooded her. “If by stimulating, you mean horrifying, then you are correct. That soldier had no honor . . . shooting a child.”
He drew uncomfortably close to her, but Jasminda refused to step back. “And you feel the Prince Regent is acting honorably in subjecting the captain to a court martial that could result in his execution?”
“Of course. That man would have killed the boy for no reason if there had been no Earthsingers present. The prince is doing the right thing. He is honorable.”
“It is a shame that honor is not the most important quality in a leader.”
Jasminda blinked, choosing to take the bait. “What is a more important quality?”
“Decisiveness. The ability to do what needs to be done. Leadership is about making hard choices and not indulging one’s every whim.” He looked her up and do
wn as she strained to remain poised under the inspection. “For example, bringing home a stray pet is not in line with effective leadership.”
Jasminda’s jaw tensed. “Say what you think you need to say to me.”
His slow smile froze the blood in her veins. “Very well. You may be unsuitable, but you are by no means unintelligent. Let me be clear: you make him weaker. He was not strong to begin with, and Elsira’s greatest tragedy was the loss of Alariq, a man truly fit to lead. However, given that we must make the best of what we have and there are no other princes coming out of the woodwork, Jaqros needs to be strong. He needs a princess the people can rally around, not some mongrel whore installed in the palace.”
The crack rang out before she even thought about it. Her hand stung, and she stared at it as if it belonged to someone else. She had never slapped someone so hard before. She had never slapped anyone ever.
Calladeen’s eyes narrowed. The fear snaking inside her enlarged as a cruel expression slid onto his face.
“Zavros.” Jack stepped into view from behind Calladeen, and Jasminda gasped, her moment of alarm fleeing with sudden relief. He was all warrior, his face cut from stone. He stepped toe to toe with Calladeen, speaking in a low and deadly voice, forcing the taller man backward a step. “If you ever so much as look in her direction again, I will personally ensure your eligibility for the Order of Eunuchs. If you have a problem with me, you bring it to me. You do not speak to her. You do not look at her. As far as you are concerned, she does not exist.”
Calladeen’s sneer melted. His eyes widened in fear. The only movement in his body was the shudder of his throat as he swallowed.
“Now get out of my sight.”
The man lowered into a hasty bow before fleeing up the stairs. Jack turned to Jasminda, reaching for her. She longed to fall into his arms but took a step back. His forehead crinkled in confusion.
"Are you all right?"
Shaking her head, she took another step away from him. Gratitude and self-preservation fought within her. “That will come back to haunt you.”