The Women's War

by Jenna Glass

  Noble gaped at her, and she knew a protest was coming. She cut it off before the coachman had time to form words.

  “If you value your position, you’ll do as you’re told.” She glared at him to let him know she meant what she said. She hated to be such a shrew—it was not at all her way to threaten her servants’ livelihoods—but she didn’t have the time or patience to deal with the male insistence on protecting women whether they wanted it or not.

  Noble drew back as if slapped. “Yes, my lady,” he said, his lips barely moving as his shoulders went stiff with indignation. His eyes filmed over as he opened his Mindseye to find some Rho for the cheval. But instead of activating the cheval, he merely stood there, his face going entirely bloodless and his jaw dropping open.

  “What is it?” she asked, holding on to her patience by the thinnest of threads.

  He opened and closed his mouth a few times as if struggling to find words. The thread holding Alys’s patience broke. “Start the cheval!” she snapped at her coachman, but he seemed incapable of speech or action.

  With her sense of urgency too overpowering to ignore, Alys did the unthinkable and opened her Mindseye. At least the children were already in the carriage and couldn’t see, and the coachman seemed too shocked to even notice. Her worldly vision blurred behind the riotous colors of the elements. And suddenly, Alys knew exactly what had stolen her coachman’s voice.

  She had expected to see what she always saw with her Mindseye: a sea of snow-white Rho, peppered with a generous dose of blue-marbled Aal and numerous other elements. But tonight, the sea was no longer snow white.

  Alys turned her head left and right and blinked a couple of times, just in case her imagination was running away with her, but no. The most common element, the one that was gathered around her own body and her coachman’s, the one that should have been Rho and should have been pure white, was…not.

  It looked very like Rho and was every bit as plentiful. But instead of being pure white, each mote had a small spot of red in it. There was not a pure-white mote of Rho anywhere.

  Alys had no idea what would happen if she touched these red-spotted motes, nor what they would do. But there was no normal Rho in sight, and she needed Rho to activate the cheval and get her children to the safety of the cliffs. She reached out and grabbed the nearest motes and shoved them at the cheval.

  The cheval snorted and stomped its hoof, just as it always did when fed Rho. Alys closed her Mindseye and shuddered. The coachman had turned his back on her, too prudish to watch his lady working magic. She hoped that meant he would keep his mouth shut about what he’d seen.

  “Get the children to the palace!” she ordered him, and he finally seemed to snap out of his stupor. He climbed shakily up to his perch, eying the cheval with unadulterated suspicion. Alys worried for a moment that he might refuse to drive the coach, but perhaps her sense of urgency had finally gotten through to him. He slapped the reins, and the cheval started forward.

  The last thing Alys saw as the coach drove out of the coach-house was her daughter sticking her head out the window and staring back at her in wide-eyed surprise. Jinnell called out something, but Alys couldn’t hear over the rattling of the coach. She stepped sideways into a pool of darkness as the honor guardsmen followed the coach. She needn’t have bothered hiding, for none of the guardsmen looked back.

  Hoping that wasn’t the last she would ever see of her children, Alys hurried back to the house to organize the servants and do what she could to get as many people to higher ground as possible.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Shelvon of Nandel, daughter of the Sovereign Prince of Nandel and future Queen of Aaltah, lay bent over the edge of her bed with three layers of skirts halfway smothering her as she closed her eyes and gripped the bedclothes in white-knuckled fists. Her husband, Crown Prince Delnamal, grunted like a rutting stallion as he thrust into her. In Nandel, tradition held that a man should not lie with a woman while she was pregnant, and while Shelvon had known such was not the custom in Aaltah, she had nonetheless thought herself safe from her husband’s attentions. He’d made no secret of the fact that he found her homely. In truth, there seemed to be nothing about her that he found even remotely appealing, so she’d expected to have to endure him in her bed only as necessary to create the requisite male heirs. And yet here she was, three months pregnant with a child the midwife assured them was a boy, with her husband making that disgusting grunting noise as he pleasured himself with her body.

  Shelvon bit back a cry of pain at an especially hard and inexpert thrust. Delnamal didn’t go out of his way to hurt her—a pleasant surprise, considering his generally unpleasant nature—but he saw no need to be gentle, either. And at thirty-one years old, he had both the stamina and the self-control to make each coupling last exactly as long as he liked.

  With a shout of triumph, Delnamal climaxed, and Shelvon let out a quiet sigh of relief even as he continued to pump into her. It was almost over.

  He all but collapsed on top of her, breathing heavily and pressing her face deeper into the feather bed as his weight held her skirts closer over her head. Her eyes sprang open in alarm as she tried to take a breath and could find no air. Luckily, Delnamal’s ability to pretend she was the woman he really wanted faded within seconds of climax. Once he remembered who was beneath him, whose face was hidden by the cascade of skirts, he pulled away with alacrity.

  Shelvon sucked in a much-needed breath, but didn’t move from her ignominious position. When she’d first married Delnamal, she’d been ashamed of her nudity and had always hurried to cover herself. It was especially humiliating that he always took her from behind, hiding her face and throwing up her skirts to cover the blond hair that was a constant reminder of who she was. Holding still with her buttocks bared to the world took an effort of will, even after almost a year of marriage, but she’d learned early that her husband grew surly if she attempted to protect what was left of her dignity. He was bad enough cheerful; surly, he was intolerable. He didn’t have to raise a hand to her to make her life miserable.

  Still panting, Delnamal patted one bare cheek.

  “That was nice,” he said in a husky voice. She heard the sound of him setting his clothes to rights and wished she could do the same. Her fingers dug deeper into the bedclothes, and she clenched her jaws tight, afraid one of her scathing thoughts would escape her mouth if she wasn’t careful. Did he think his words somehow flattering? Did he think the pat was comforting, or tender, or welcome? Did he know that he spoke to her with the same tone he used with his dogs?

  Rage boiled in Shelvon’s belly—rage that she had no right to feel. Her marriage was far from a picture of bliss. Her husband hated her for not being the woman he loved. Her future people looked down their noses at her for being a Nandel “barbarian” with odd blond hair and a guttural accent that no amount of training and practicing could tame. But she would be a queen, and someday her son would be the king, both of them living a life of luxury that would not have been possible in Nandel, where austerity was a way of life even for the royal family. And at least in Aaltah, she was allowed to make some of her own decisions instead of having every aspect of her life controlled by her closest male relative.

  How many women in Seven Wells would kill to be in my position? Shelvon wondered as the door closed behind her husband, and she could finally shove her skirts down and rise.

  For the thousandth time, Shelvon reminded herself how very lucky she was to have a husband like Delnamal. And yet as she began unlacing the front of her gown, she found her hands were shaking. She knew she should call for her lady’s maid to help her undress for bed, but she wanted a little more time to regain her dignity before she had to face anyone. Even a maid. Besides, in Nandel, even women of the royal family dressed themselves and considered women of the other kingdoms and principalities decadent for needing help.

  The front lacings cam
e loose obediently, but the bodice was pinned into place, its boning restrictive enough that she couldn’t reach all the pins. She gave an unladylike grunt of frustration. The reason women of Nandel didn’t need lady’s maids was that their clothing had only two layers, with all lacings and fastenings at the front or sides, where they could easily be reached.

  Giving up on the gown, the bodice flopping loose in front of her but still attached at the sides, Shelvon sat heavily on the edge of the bed and grabbed a bedpost. She couldn’t get out of the gown herself, but she couldn’t bear to call in her maid just yet. Not while her hands were still unsteady. Not when the room still smelled of sex.

  The bed quivered beneath her, and at first Shelvon thought it was her own body that created the shaking. Then a couple of heartbeats later, it happened again, and she heard the bottles on her dressing table rattle.

  And then it began in earnest. Born and raised in Nandel, Shelvon had never experienced an earthquake before, though she had heard they occurred periodically in Aaltah. Everyone had assured her they were harmless, just a little shaking that quickly went away with no harm done. Either everyone had lied, trusting that an uneducated barbarian such as she would not know the difference, or this quake was unusually strong.

  Shelvon gripped the bedpost as the shaking grew stronger. From outside her door, she heard distant shouts and cries as luminants and other glassware began falling and breaking. It seemed she wasn’t the only one the force of this quake had taken by surprise. She closed her eyes and held on as all around her things crashed to the floor and the world shook so hard she felt her own bones might shatter with the force of it. An iron chandelier that hung from her ceiling broke free, hitting the floor with a loud bang and smashing the dozen or so luminants it held.

  Had the chandelier fallen a hand’s-breadth to the right, Shelvon would have been crushed beneath it. Broken glass pattered against her skirts, but for once she was glad for all the thick layers, as nothing seemed to break the skin. The room was cast into darkness, and still Shelvon held on. She wondered if someone would come to check on her after hearing the crash, but her door remained closed.

  The quake eventually petered out. Shelvon could tell from all the cries and shouts that the entire palace was in a state of panic, and yet it still stung that not one person came to look in on her. Her husband was certainly now surrounded by servants and guards, who no doubt shielded him with their bodies, but no one came running to help his pregnant wife. She’d weathered the quake by herself, feeling more alone than she’d ever felt in her life.

  Even when it was over, no one immediately came to check on her. She continued to cling to the bedpost, not knowing whether the shaking would start again, her heart still pounding, her hands wet and clammy with sweat.

  If she’d been injured, they’d have been too late, but eventually a couple of maids opened her door, at which point a virtual flood of servants and guards and healers descended on her. In the throng was the midwife, and Shelvon realized the sudden outpouring of care had nothing to do with her and everything to do with the child she carried. Her maid gave her body a cursory glance to make sure she wasn’t bleeding and had no obvious broken bones, but she immediately gave way to the red-robed midwife, on loan from the Abbey until the child was delivered. The midwife’s eyes filmed over, and Shelvon looked away. In Nandel, even the women of the Abbey were forbidden to practice magic. Shelvon couldn’t get used to seeing a woman with her Mindseye open, though perhaps by the time her baby was born she would finally stop feeling so ill at ease. The midwife proclaimed the baby unharmed by the stress of the earthquake, much to the relief of the mingled ladies.

  A handful of minutes after the midwife finished with her, Shelvon was alone again in her room with a hastily lit candelabra sitting on a bedside table and the worst of the glass and debris swept into a corner. It was then that she finally allowed herself to cry. She would never admit it out loud to anyone, but she would have been far from heartbroken if the midwife had reached a different conclusion. Producing an heir was her single purpose in life, and Shelvon knew she should want this child more than she wanted anything at all. And yet…

  The pregnancy hadn’t kept her husband from her bed as she’d hoped, nor had it made him love her—or even like her. All it had done was make her violently ill every morning and emphasize how expendable and unimportant she herself was to everyone. Even her servants.

  Sinking deeper into a pool of self-pity—and not caring because there was no one around to see her and scold her—Shelvon let the tears fall unheeded. Until a sudden, sharp pain stabbed through her belly and her shrill cry brought her lady’s maid running.

  * * *

  —

  Alysoon fell into her bed exhausted, and yet she knew she would not sleep. Not after the horrors of this interminable night.

  She’d done what she could to help the people of the Harbor District. Most of the nobles from the Terrace District had raced for the cliffs, only a few of the men staying behind to try to evacuate those who were in the most danger of being flooded. She’d flouted all conventions of womanly behavior by mounting her husband’s horse and organizing flustered servants—both her own and those of her neighbors—urging them to help bring the commoners of the Harbor District to safety.

  Falcor had eventually noticed she was not in the carriage and raced back to the manor, prepared to carry her to the palace against her will if necessary, but he was a man with a good heart. His duty to his king was to get Alys to safety, whatever it took, but his duty as a human being was to help with the evacuation. He’d chosen his duty as a human being, though he would surely face the wrath of the king if word of his actions reached the palace.

  Alys had no idea how many were left in the Harbor District when the surge came. The Terrace District was peppered with clusters of commoners in various states of shock and dismay. The soldiers of the Citadel had done their best to drive people like cattle to higher ground, ruthlessly leaving the wounded and missing behind in their effort to get as many people to safety as possible. Many brave men had died, still trying to save others when the surge finally came, sweeping away boats and buildings as if they were twigs in a stream.

  The water rose and rose and rose, filled with screaming, flailing people, as well as the bodies of the dead. It rose so high that water spilled over onto the first level of the Terrace District at the very height of the surge, flooding every expensive home and dragging a few more exhausted stragglers out to sea when it finally began to recede again.

  Certainly hundreds had lost their lives this night, probably thousands. And though she knew she’d done her part and saved as many as she could, the weight of all those deaths sat heavily on Alys’s shoulders. She lay down on her bed fully clothed, not even bothering to dowse the luminant Honor had put in her room. She stared at the ceiling and tried not to think, tried not to let the images of tonight’s terror haunt her, but it was an impossible task. She turned over onto her side and felt the bulge in the pocket of her torn and soiled traveling dress.

  Happy for the distraction, Alys sat up and pulled the book her mother had given her out of her pocket. Her nose wrinkled in instinctive distaste when she saw again the gaudy red cover and the overwrought title. She opened her Mindseye, staring at the book and still seeing no evidence that it was a spell vessel. She plucked three motes of Rho from the air around her, trying not to be distracted by the disturbing red dot. She pushed the three motes into the book, expecting it to suddenly glow with elements, but all she could see were the three motes of Rho she’d put there.

  Shaking her head, she poked at the book as if that would somehow make something happen. With her Mindseye open and all the elements filling the air, she could barely make out the book’s contours with her physical sight. Reluctantly, she closed her Mindseye. In her hand was the same tawdry red book of love poetry, unchanged by the influx of Rho. Alys wondered if her mother had been p
laying a trick on her, or if old age and austerity had begun whittling away at her mind.

  So desperate was she for distraction that Alys actually cracked the book open, intending to read as much of the poetry as she could stomach. But her jaw dropped open when she turned to the first page.

  When she’d opened the book in the Abbey, the first page had contained an illustration, a drawing of a woman smiling coyly as an absurdly lovestruck man gazed at her and offered her a single flower. Now, there was a small painted circle, white with a spot of red in it, that was clearly meant to represent the changed version of Rho Alys had seen with her Mindseye. And below that painted circle was a handwritten letter that began My dearest Alysoon.

  Alys’s heart beat erratically, her exhaustion all but forgotten. This book was completely impossible. While she had no education in using magic, she’d been surrounded by magic items all her life. She couldn’t say what made a luminant light up, or what made a cheval come to simulated life with a few motes of Rho, but she knew what they did. Just as she knew that the risers worked—or had before the earthquake had destroyed them. She knew of battlefield magic and death curses and women’s minor magics—but she had never heard of anything remotely like the magic in this book. Magic that made the book look unmagical—even now, when its spell was active.

  Then she read the first line of the letter.

  By the time you read this, I will be dead.

  Alys gasped and covered her mouth, tears springing to her eyes. She wanted to throw the book across the room, to deny its message, or at least pretend to disbelieve it.

  Instead, she kept reading, finding one shock after another. She’d had a half-sister and a niece she’d never known existed, and they were dead along with her mother. All three of them took their own lives to cast a spell Alysoon would have said with complete certainty was impossible—except she’d seen the changed motes of Rho. With the change in Rho, her mother wrote,