by Jenna Glass
“I don’t know what to say,” she admitted.
He flashed her another crooked grin. “All I ask is that you refrain from bursting into joyous song. Beyond that, you may say whatever you like or nothing at all.”
She laughed, feeling like a tremendous weight had been lifted from her shoulders. It was really true. She didn’t have to marry him and live in Nandel, after all. She didn’t even have to accept the crown to escape the fate that she had so dreaded. Zarsha had given her an easy way out.
“Thank you,” she said, the words feeling distinctly inadequate. Freedom from the marriage contract hardly spelled an end to her troubles, for she would have to marry as soon as possible after her mourning period was finished, and she doubted she would find any man pleasing when her heart had already been given to Graesan. But at least she wouldn’t have to upend her life and move to Nandel, where she would be considered little better than her husband’s property.
“Well, now, don’t be too grateful just yet. I still have every intention of winning you over.”
“What?”
“We are a good match, you and I, for any number of reasons. I would like a chance to convince you of that without your family forcing your hand.”
So, he wasn’t entirely setting her free, after all. But since she had no intention of letting her kingdom devolve into war because she was afraid of taking the throne, a marriage with Zarsha would always be out of the question. Semsulin would no doubt expect her to announce her intention to take the throne to him and the royal council before informing anyone else—especially a foreigner—but she saw no reason to allow Zarsha to keep believing there was a chance.
“I’m afraid a match between us will be impossible now,” she told him. “You see, I am the only legitimate heir to the throne.”
He smiled. “I am aware of that.”
She blinked. “You are? But…”
“Dearest Ellin, ours was always intended to be a political match. I would hardly come to Rhozinolm without a clear understanding of the political climate. Which means I am aware of the line of succession and what last night’s tragedy means. You are the only person who can claim the throne without causing an immediate war.”
Ellin wondered if she was the only person in the kingdom who hadn’t grasped that fact from the beginning. Then again, she had lost her whole family the night before and had herself escaped a brush with death. It was no great surprise that her mind had not leapt to examine the political ramifications in the immediate aftermath. When she became queen, she would have to develop a habit of strategic thinking.
“If you know I will be taking the throne, then you know I cannot marry you.”
He sat back casually in his chair, not in the least perturbed by her logical objection. “I know there will be pressure for you to marry within your own kingdom. But I also know your kingdom is badly in need of the trade agreements Nandel can offer and that the best way to secure them is by marriage.”
“But not by my marriage,” she argued. “When I marry, my husband will become the king, and neither the royal council nor the people would accept a Nandel-born king. I will make it one of my highest priorities to secure another—”
“You do understand the late king and your father would never have agreed to this arrangement if there were another way to secure the trade agreement. There are few fathers outside of our own principality who would be overjoyed to send their daughters into Nandel. I’m not unaware of the disadvantages of my homeland for the fairer sex.”
“Surely there must be some other way. The agreement is beneficial to both Rhozinolm and Nandel, after all.”
Zarsha nodded. “Ten years ago when the original agreement was signed, it certainly was. But then ten years ago, the prince’s daughter was not married to the heir to the throne of Aaltah. So you see we already have a buyer for as much iron and as many gems as our principality can produce. There’s little inducement for us to continue reserving some of our product for trade with Rhozinolm. Only a marriage of the highest order could possibly lead the sovereign prince to consider renewing the trade agreements under the current generous terms.”
Ellin’s heart sank. She hadn’t even taken the throne yet, and already she saw the seeds of her destruction taking root. If she couldn’t secure those trade agreements, her rivals could seize on that failure to challenge her rule.
“Because you are to be queen,” Zarsha said, “ours obviously cannot be a conventional marriage, and you cannot live in Nandel. But I can live here. I’ve found myself quite fond of life in Rhozinolm and am less eager than you might think to return to my homeland.”
There was a faintly ironic grin on his lips. Ellin supposed it wasn’t any great surprise that someone who had grown up in the harsh and forbidding land of Nandel might be seduced by the comparatively free and easy ways of the court in Rhozinolm, although most Nandelites she’d known were more apt to sneer than be seduced.
“Be that as it may,” she said, “I’m sure you understand that the people would never accept a foreigner as their king.”
He nodded. “Especially not a foreigner who hails from Nandel,” he agreed. “We would have to create a situation wherein I would be named your prince consort instead of king.”
“You must be joking,” Ellin said, although she could clearly see that he was not. “I may not be an expert in law, but I know it is not legal for a woman to reign as sovereign in any permanent capacity. Rhozinolm must have a king, and if I don’t provide one by marriage, there are two eager claimants waiting in the wings.”
Zarsha shrugged. “Then if we are to marry, we will have to change the law.”
She shook her head wonderingly. “That is impossible.”
“I think you’ll find it surprising how many things are possible when you wear a crown on your head. And because you have a year of mourning before you will be expected to marry, we shall have time to make a great number of seemingly small and harmless changes that will eventually lead to the outcome we desire.”
“You desire, you mean,” she retorted. She should have known it was too good to be true when he’d offered her that tantalizing glimpse of freedom.
“I meant what I said. I don’t want to marry you if you don’t want me. But while I don’t expect time to cause you to love or even desire me, it’s not impossible to imagine it might cause you to desire our marriage.”
He rose from his chair, but Ellin remained seated, wondering how her life had become so complicated so suddenly.
“Take some time to investigate the possibilities,” he said. “You are far more clever than most people realize, and perhaps you will be able to find a solution that escaped your father and King Linolm. If you do, then I will speak no more of our marriage or of the steps we should take to make it possible.”
He stepped forward, and before she had a hint of what he meant to do, he had put his hand on her shoulder in a most familiar manner and given her a firm squeeze. The expression on his face told her the gesture was meant to be comforting, and he let go immediately when she tensed under his touch.
“Whatever you choose, I can be your friend,” he said. “I suspect you will find true friends exceedingly rare once you take the throne, so do take advantage of those you have.”
Ellin could think of no clever reply as Zarsha bowed low and then left the room.
CHAPTER NINE
After leaving his traitorous half-sister to sputter helplessly—and, he hoped, to plan a hasty flight to the farthest reaches of the land—Delnamal intended to retreat to his chambers and drink himself into blessed oblivion. Since the quake the night before, he’d darted from one crisis to another, barely having a chance to eat, much less take a quiet moment to absorb his loss. Not that he wanted to absorb it, mind you. He’d much prefer to pretend he still had an heir on the way, that his marriage to Shelvon of Nandel served some purpose other than
to torture him.
To torture them both, he mentally amended. He was under no illusion that Shelvon was any happier with their marriage than he, but though he tried, he couldn’t seem to find any true sympathy in his heart. A woman that homely, meek, and frigid had no hope of finding happiness in marriage, so it was hardly his fault she was miserable.
But thanks to his father’s whore of a first wife, Delnamal’s heir was no more. And thanks to the vital trade agreements with Nandel, he was stuck with Shelvon whether she produced an heir or not. Prince Waldmir hardly seemed to be a doting father, but there was no doubt he would take it poorly if Delnamal divorced his daughter. Never mind that Waldmir himself had divorced and even executed wives who failed to provide heirs.
The injustice of it all made Delnamal want to scream, but drinking himself unconscious in the privacy of his own rooms was the next best thing.
Unfortunately, the world was conspiring against him, and it seemed every time he turned a corner he ran into someone who had urgent need to speak with him. And when he thought he was finally in the clear, he discovered an ambush awaiting him in his sitting room.
Queen Xanvin had the regal bearing and steely backbone her daughter-in-law so badly lacked, and she commanded a great deal of respect from the nobility of Aaltah despite her foreign ways and her unfashionably devout nature. The people of Aaltah were content to harbor their love of the Creator and the Mother in their hearts without having to make the grand show of it that was typical in his mother’s homeland of Khalpar. Delnamal had heard that when his mother first came to Aaltah, people had been taken aback by her fervor and compared her unfavorably to their previous queen. She had won them over long before Delnamal was old enough to notice any tension, though she had not succeeded in making religion fashionable in her adopted land.
The queen carried a Devotional with her at all times, either a full-size copy tucked in a discreet pocket or reticule, or a miniature that hung from a chain that circled her waist. She abhorred idleness, and whenever she had a spare moment, out came the Devotional.
She was, of course, reading it while she sat in wait for her son, her attention focused so strongly on the page that she seemed at first not to have noticed her quarry enter the room. Delnamal could not fathom how she could read those same words over, and over, and over again without her eyes glazing. He had no doubt she could recite the entire tome by heart, and yet she read with intense concentration, as if it were all new to her. He could hardly credit that concentration as genuine, and yet it seemed impossible that she would keep up the pretense for year after year after year.
Eventually, the queen blinked and became aware of Delnamal’s presence. She closed her Devotional and stroked its worn cover lovingly before laying it on the table beside her. She stood and held her hands out to him.
Delnamal suppressed a sigh and took his mother’s hands, pressing a kiss on each of her cheeks. She had already expressed her sorrow at his loss that morning, so he wasn’t sure why she was here. Certainly it was not because she thought he needed a mother’s comfort. He had never thought of the child in Shelvon’s belly as an actual human being, and he hardly could claim he’d looked forward to having an infant in his household. Many a father—including his own—had assured him that once he held his child, he would instantly fall in love with it, but secretly, he had doubted it. He failed to see the attraction of a squalling infant. All he felt at the loss of his heir was anger, not sorrow.
Not that he would say as much to his mother. While she had failed to instill in him her religious fervor, he knew enough about the Creator and the Mother to know loving his own child—even before it was born—was considered a cornerstone of the faith. She would be scandalized to know the ambivalence with which he had faced fatherhood, and he could only imagine the choice words she would have for him.
“You have not been to see Shelvon today,” his mother said, fixing him with the kind of reproving stare only a mother could manage.
And here he’d thought he could escape a scolding by keeping his feelings to himself. “The day has been madness. Have you any idea how many crises I’ve had to deal with?”
The queen arched a brow at him. “And yet you do not seem to be dealing with a crisis at this precise moment.”
He made a growling sound of frustration, but more at himself than at her. He’d walked right into that reproof, and truly he had no acceptable excuse for not seeing his wife. It was his duty as a husband to console her, as he’d been assured she was devastated by the loss. He wondered how long everyone would remain sympathetic to the woman when they discovered the reason behind her miscarriage. He and the king had both agreed it would be pointless to try to make a secret of the spell that had been cast—they had no reason to doubt the abbess’s claim that she’d sent fliers throughout Seven Wells to spread the news—but they weren’t in any hurry to get the word out. The men of Aaltah had to keep their minds on recovering from the disastrous earthquake and repairing what damage they could instead of worrying about some twisted women’s conspiracy.
Delnamal regarded the queen carefully, trying to gauge from the look on her face whether she knew the cause of Shelvon’s miscarriage or whether she thought it was simple misfortune.
“You are the crown prince, my son,” she said, still in that reproving tone he knew so well. “People observe and judge your every move. Don’t think no one has noticed you have not even inquired after the health of your wife. When people begin to learn exactly what happened last night, they will note your lack of husbandly devotion and come to the immediate conclusion that Shelvon did not wish to carry your child.”
The corner of his eye twitched, and his hands closed into fists. So, his mother knew about the spell—and what Shelvon’s miscarriage meant.
“They’ll think that no matter what,” he said, dropping heavily into the nearest chair. If he played the concerned husband and went to Shelvon’s bedside, he might not be able to stop himself from strangling her. Her failure to do her duty as a wife would make him the butt of many a jest. No one would dare mock him to his face—if they did, they would quickly be made to regret it—but he would know it was happening behind his back, that people would take it as evidence of his own shortcomings as a man. It was intolerable!
“They’ll speculate, I’ll grant you. But a miscarriage in the wake of a traumatic event is hardly exceptional or unexpected. If you show every sign that Shelvon’s miscarriage is a devastating loss to you both, people will be less likely to believe it was caused by the spell.”
“That’s women’s logic,” he scoffed. “People will believe whatever they find the most entertaining. It wouldn’t matter if she’d lost the baby when falling down a flight of stairs. They will all lay the responsibility at my feet.”
Although the queen had eventually won over her people, Delnamal was under no illusion that her popularity extended to him. He might be the heir to the throne, but in moments of honesty he had to admit to himself that he was the least favorite of King Aaltyn’s children. The bastard Tynthanal—the handsome and charismatic soldier who had every reason to expect he would be the next Lord Commander of the Citadel—was unquestionably the people’s favorite. As crown prince, Delnamal was nominally the top military authority in the land, but he hoped never to have to give a command that contradicted his half-brother’s, as he could not swear that the men would obey him. And then there was the “tragic” figure of Alysoon, whose devotion to her disgraced mother had endeared her to softhearted—and softheaded—people everywhere. Delnamal ranked a distant third in the hearts of his people, and in the heart of his own father. How delicious many of them would find it that his wife was humiliating him for all to see.
“I don’t deny there will be talk,” his mother said. “But the easiest way to quiet it is to beget another heir as soon as possible, and neglecting your wife after her ordeal is a poor start.”
Delnamal g
round his teeth and crossed his arms over his chest. “My relationship with my wife is my own affair and hardly something I wish to discuss with my mother.”
He was not entirely surprised that the queen ignored his wishes. “You have no relationship with your wife. That is the problem. One you could work around when you had no need of her cooperation. That has changed, and you had best recognize it immediately.”
Delnamal felt his lip curling in disdain and tried to keep the expression from growing into a full-out scowl. He could hardly stomach being in the same room with Shelvon for as long as it took to plant his seed, and he certainly had no interest in talking to a woman so dull she would bore a stone wall. He had married her and destroyed his own chances for happiness for the good of the kingdom, but he was damned if he was going to woo her.
“I will not go down on my knees and beg my own wife to grant me a child, if that’s what you’re suggesting,” he growled. “I will make it clear that if she does not do her duty, she is bound for the Abbey and to hell with the trade agreements!”
The queen stroked the cover of her Devotional as if soothing the damn book over the sacrilege he had voiced. Rage at the injustice of it all burned in his blood and made him want to break something. He’d sacrificed everything to marry that pallid, bloodless bitch, and she had repaid him in the foulest manner. No doubt she was even now reclining smugly in her sickbed, laughing at him and congratulating herself on her victory.
“Have caution, my son,” the queen said in a gentle voice that only grated on him. “You cannot be seen to endanger those trade agreements. Rebuilding all that was lost will drain the treasury to the breaking point, and those who have been bankrupted or displaced by the disaster will look to the royal family for leadership and support. Tynthanal is already being heralded as a hero for leading his men into the Harbor District last night and saving many lives. If you give the people reason to hate you while they love him…” She shrugged delicately.