by Jenna Glass
“Maybe,” Alys finally said, squirming a bit at the prideful admission. “We shall see as I learn to identify the elements. Let us start by identifying those elements that we can both see.”
She opened her Mindseye and looked around the room. “Pick an element, and I’ll let you know if I see it, too. We can skip Rho, naturally.”
“And Aal,” Jinnell agreed, pointing at a cluster of Aal motes.
“Yes. Now pick something else. Something you don’t recognize.”
Jinnell pointed at a purple-pink mote with iridescent hints of silver in it. “Do you see this one?”
Alys nodded. “That’s Oon,” she said.
“Oh. Right. It seems proper you should be able to see your namesake elements.”
“Perhaps, but it’s no sure thing.”
“How about this one?” Jinnell pointed to a medium-blue mote with a broad stripe of red across its center.
“I can see it,” Alys said, “but I don’t know what it is.”
“Let’s find out.” Jinnell drew the mote toward the book, then they both had to close their Mindseye to see the result.
Von. F. Soothing, calming. Essential for pain relief spells and sleep spells.
“Oh,” Alys and Jinnell said together. The book wasn’t just going to tell them the name of the element, but also its gender and use.
“I suppose we’ll have to look at Rho and Aal, after all,” Alys said.
Jinnell let out a small sigh. “See, I told you this was going to take forever.”
Alys shivered, but it was a chill of unease, not cold. They could not move on to the next lesson until they could identify forty elements, and it might take time to find that many that both she and Jinnell could see. It was still possible that Alys was worrying over nothing, that the sense of urgency that drove her to share her mother’s book with Jinnell was all a product of her imagination. But she couldn’t shake the feeling that time was not on their side.
“I think perhaps we need to spend more time on this than we might have thought,” she told her daughter, hoping she was keeping the anxiety out of her voice. “I’m sorry I waited so long to start. From now on, we should do this every night while the rest of the household sleeps.”
Something in her daughter’s eyes told her Jinnell had heard the thread of anxiety despite her attempt to hide it. But Jinnell asked no questions. And in contrast to her usual desultory response to the prospect of studying, she made no protest.
* * *
—
There were few places in Aalwell, indeed in all of Aaltah, that Delnamal hated more than the dungeons. He did not like to think of himself as squeamish, and he certainly didn’t feel sorry for the wretched creatures who found themselves imprisoned there, but the place oppressed him in ways that made little sense, considering he had no fear of ever occupying such a space himself.
The prison was of modern design, and scrupulously clean. Neither the cells nor the corridors was especially dank or damp, and any vermin that crept in were periodically exterminated. On its surface, even the light-starved dungeon cells where the most unfortunate criminals were entombed were not the storybook pits of despair. Prisoners were provided with straw-tick mattresses, their slops were emptied frequently, and though the temperature was always uncomfortably cool, each prisoner had a single thin blanket to wrap up in for warmth.
It wasn’t the physical conditions of captivity in the cells that made the dungeons into a living nightmare. No, the nightmares occurred when the prisoners were dragged out of those cells, and it felt as if the very walls had absorbed decades’ worth of screams and terror and misery.
Delnamal shivered as he made his way down the narrow staircase to the dungeon level by the light of a flickering torch. The Crown was not about to waste costly luminants on the wretches in the prison, and despite the basic cleanliness of the place, the walls were stained with soot and scorch marks, and the air smelled faintly of smoke. Then when he came to the bottom of the stairway and stepped into the cell block, the smell of smoke was immediately drowned out by the sharp bite of body odor. The slops might be frequently cleaned, but the prisoners themselves were not.
Delnamal gritted his teeth against a nearly overpowering desire to turn and flee. Surely no one would blame him if he merely allowed the inquisitor to give him a full report of everything he had learned—along with a clinical listing of the methods he’d used to pry out the information—after it was all over. But he knew without having to be told that his father would expect him to have the balls to at least pay a visit and get an in-person report. Certainly King Aaltyn himself had presided over many an interrogation, considering it part of his duty as king. Even knowing that, Delnamal might have turned back, were he not certain his cowardice would immediately invite comparisons to the courage and strength of his half-brother.
Several guards were gathered in the guardroom directly below the staircase, and the inquisitor was there as well. The men were laughing over some jest, the sound echoing through the stone corridors in a direct mockery of the misery that shrouded the place. All leapt to their feet and bowed when Delnamal entered, the laughter dying as if it had not existed. When they quieted, he could hear the faint sound of someone weeping in the distance—a sound far more suited to the environment than laughter.
“What have you learned?” he asked the inquisitor, without much hope of a satisfactory answer.
The inquisitor eyed him warily, no doubt knowing his news would not be pleasing. “I have thoroughly examined all three prisoners, Your Highness,” he said. “In my professional opinion, they had no knowledge of the spell that was cast, nor have they any idea how it was accomplished or how it might be reversed.”
Delnamal cursed, though it was the answer he’d expected. He’d spoken to the grand magus of the Academy, one of the most magically gifted men he’d ever known, and the man had repeatedly assured him that what the abbess had done was impossible. Regardless of the very obvious evidence that it was, indeed, possible. Expecting three old abigails to know the secrets of the working was unrealistic. And yet he expected it anyway.
“That is not satisfactory,” he told the inquisitor.
A hint of worry shone in the inquisitor’s eyes, but his voice remained calm. “I can examine them further, of course, and I will if that is your wish. But they are all elderly, and two of them are particularly frail. I fear if I push them any harder, their hearts may not be able to withstand the strain.”
Delnamal narrowed his eyes. “Surely you have ways of keeping them alive for questioning.” Delnamal knew little of the inquisitor’s art, but he did know there were magic items that could repair even potentially fatal injuries.
“I can prevent them from dying of their injuries,” the inquisitor agreed. “But I cannot make their bodies young and strong once more, and all three are close to reaching their natural limits.”
It was of no consequence to Delnamal if all three of the women expired. They were traitors anyway, whether they admitted it or not. If Delnamal had his way, the Abbey would be razed to the ground and all the women within slaughtered. It was called the Abbey of the Unwanted for a reason, and while some might miss the women’s services, it would take little time to rebuild the Abbey and start anew.
Not that Delnamal was going to get his way. The king still considered those wretched women his subjects, and he would not condemn them all even if there were strong evidence to link the three arrested abigails to the crime. Which there wasn’t.
“By all rights, their lives should be forfeit,” Delnamal said. “If the rigors of your examination should cause one or more to expire, you have my word that you will not be held responsible. They must be made to confess.” Delnamal held the inquisitor’s gaze, willing the man to understand the full meaning of his words.
The inquisitor’s jaw tightened. He was a hard man, with a hard job, b
ut perhaps even he hesitated to torture old women into confessing to a crime he was convinced they did not commit. But whether those particular abigails were guilty or not, Delnamal was sure that damned Abbey was to blame for the Curse that had stolen his heir. And he would find a way to make them pay no matter how reluctant the king might be to condemn them.
The inquisitor swallowed and dropped his gaze to the floor. “I understand, Your Highness,” he said with a slight bow of his head. “I will offer the prisoners additional inducement to tell the truth.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
There was little Shelvon hated more than being dragged to a court party on the arm of the man who made no secret that he despised her. Whenever possible, she demurred, and she’d hoped the miscarriage would be sufficient excuse to shirk her social obligations for at least a few weeks after the earthquake. However, her husband had made it clear that attendance at tonight’s ball was not optional. She sat before the mirror in her dressing room and tried to hold still as her maid pinned jeweled ornaments into the netting of her snood. To prepare for a formal occasion here in Aaltah required well over an hour of tedious pinning and prodding and lacing and braiding, and Shelvon wondered if she would ever get used to it all. At home in Nandel, dressing for the evening required nothing more than adding an extra layer of petticoats and choosing a kirtle in a daring shade. Daring in Nandel being considered any color that was not brown or black or gray.
There was a knock on the dressing room door, and Shelvon’s maid put down her pins and went to answer. When she returned to the dressing table, she was beaming. In her hands was a large black velvet box, which she held out reverently to Shelvon.
“This is from your husband,” the maid said, looking like she was about to burst with excitement.
Shelvon blinked in surprise. “From Delnamal?” she asked, as if she had more than one husband who could possibly be giving her gifts. But it was so out of character as to be almost shocking. He had given her the traditional jewels on their wedding day, and a decadently soft fur-lined mantle on the day they’d formally announced her pregnancy, but she knew perfectly well it was Queen Xanvin who had selected those gifts—and no doubt it was the queen she had to thank for this impulse, too.
“Well go on. Open it.” Her maid was practically bouncing on her heels with excitement. Evidently, she thought this some kind of grand romantic gesture on the prince’s part. Shelvon wasn’t sure what to make of it herself, but she was certain romance did not enter into the equation.
She opened the box. Inside, she found a necklace and earrings of delicate gold filigree, sparkling with clusters of flowers with ruby centers and diamond petals. Her maid gasped and made a low sound of appreciation.
“They’re beautiful!” she said in a voice filled with awe.
Shelvon ran her fingers over the jewels of the necklace. The trailing ends of it would reach to the very bottom of her bodice, and the dangling earrings would brush her shoulders.
“We will have to change your bodice,” the maid said speculatively, and Shelvon suppressed a groan. Here she’d thought she was almost done with the ordeal of dressing.
But there was no denying that the stunning necklace would be lost against the embroidered gold brocade bodice she was currently wearing. And that she would have to forgo the assortment of pins and brooches and lace that had already been attached.
“I don’t suppose the prince would be happy if I saved this for another occasion,” she murmured. Her maid’s eyes widened with shock and maybe even horror. Shelvon sighed and gave in to the inevitable.
“What do you advise I change into?” she asked. She had long ago learned that she was always better off wearing what her ladies picked for her instead of making the decision herself. She had no fashion sense whatsoever, at least not any that the court of Aaltah recognized.
* * *
—
Delnamal paced the anteroom impatiently. Ordinarily, he could trust his wife to be painfully punctual, for she’d shown no sign of being capable of adjusting to court time. He would never admit to his mother that he was attempting to take her advice, but though he would be more than happy to set Shelvon aside and find a new wife more to his liking, there was no denying a divorce would cause a diplomatic incident with Nandel. It was possible he could convince his father to offer Jinnell Rah-Sylnin to Prince Waldmir as a bride, and such a marriage might be enough to smooth any ruffled feathers, but Delnamal was well aware that was no sure thing. Despite his lack of enthusiasm for his marriage, maintaining it—and coaxing Shelvon into producing an heir—was the surest way to keep the peace, and he was determined to do his duty.
To that end, he’d sent Shelvon a truly extravagant gift, and he’d even arrived in the anteroom at the appointed hour, instead of fashionably late as was his usual practice. Only to find for the first time ever that Shelvon was not already awaiting him. How like a woman to be so frustratingly contrary.
Delnamal’s fingers tapped restlessly against his leg as he paced. His stomach rumbled as a tantalizing whiff of the feast to come floated through the anteroom. For this evening’s festivities, he had finally allowed his valet to put some stays under his doublet. How women survived wearing the things day in and day out he could hardly imagine. He felt like he was suffocating, and the bones dug into his flesh like talons. He hoped they would not interfere with his ability to indulge at dinner. The longer he had to wait in this anteroom smelling food, the hungrier he would become.
Delnamal was actually contemplating the unthinkable breach of etiquette of entering the dining hall without his wife on his arm when she finally swept into the room. She curtsied deeply, and when she spoke her voice was barely audible. She was the most softly spoken human being he had ever encountered, though with her unlovely accent and her abysmal conversational skills, he was hardly inclined to complain.
“Forgive me for keeping you waiting, Your Highness,” she murmured, or at least that’s what he thought she said.
She had certainly not grown any lovelier in the hours since he’d last seen her, but the flash and sparkle of the jewels he had given her were a welcome distraction to the eyes, and her jewel-studded cap and snood kept most of her colorless hair hidden. She would not be a stunning beauty on his arm as he led her into dinner, but at least she would not be an eyesore, either.
“You look lovely this evening, my dear,” he said. The words felt awkward in his mouth, and he wondered if he had ever before offered her a compliment. He searched his mind but could come up with no such memory.
If truth be told, he suspected he had spoken more kind words to his hated half-sister than he had ever spoken to his wife, and the realization shamed him. He did not have to love or even like her, but there was no reason he should make their marriage any more miserable than it already was.
“Thank you,” she whispered, keeping her head bowed as she reached up to finger the cascade of jewels that hung down the front of her bodice. “I have never set eyes on anything so fine. You honor me.”
Delnamal allowed himself a small smile, which she did not see because she was staring so resolutely at the rug beneath her feet. He liked a shy and self-deprecating woman, but Shelvon took the near-groveling to an unpalatable extreme. He had certainly not given her the gift to honor her. Instead, it was an inducement for her to give him what he wanted in return. But even he, with his habitually abrupt manner, knew better than to say that out loud.
“I intend to be a better husband from now on,” he said, and was rewarded by a startled glance up that briefly skimmed his face. Was that a look of hope he detected in those dull, placid eyes of hers?
“You are too good to me,” she said, gaze returning to the carpet as she sketched a quick curtsy.
“We both know that’s not true.” He was almost as surprised by his words as she. He certainly hadn’t meant to say any such thing. He had, in fact, barely allowed himself to t
hink it. “I will do better from now on.”
Shelvon looked up once more, this time going so far as to meet his eyes. “I will try to do better, too,” she said earnestly. Her eyes shimmered suspiciously, and he suffered a brief surge of horror at the thought she might suddenly burst into tears. He was prepared to give her gifts and offer the occasional kind word, but he had no patience for feminine hysterics and had no intention of allowing the woman to weep against his shoulder. Thankfully, Shelvon blinked back the tears and offered him a tremulous smile.
His stomach gurgled loudly, signaling that it had had enough of this evening’s marital bliss. It was probably for the best, since he couldn’t imagine what else he and his wife had to talk about. He gave her his best, most practiced court smile and offered her his elbow.
“Shall we?”
His gallant offer was rewarded with another shy smile, and Shelvon obediently tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow.
* * *
—
Shelvon could not rightly say she enjoyed that night’s feast, but neither did she suffer through it. Both the food and the drink were delicious and decadent, and she had learned through hard experience that she must eat no more than a couple bites of each course lest she spend the latter half of the dinner turning away each platter and receiving offended looks from those around her. It seemed accepting a large plate piled with three days’ worth of food and then eating a single bite was considered far more polite than refusing the plate. The waste was appalling—especially when so many of the common folk of the Harbor District were half-starved—but in Aaltah, waste was clearly part and parcel of the royal tradition.