by Jenna Glass
The fire blazed hot and bright, the scent of roses quickly obliterated by the billows of smoke that lifted into the sky.
* * *
—
Tradition held that a royal funeral did not come to a close until the funeral pyre had burned itself out, although after the pyre was lit, mourners were free to rise from their seats and move about. Ellin took herself to the opposite side of the fire from Tamzin, and though this was meant to be a time of quiet reflection about the lives of those who had been put to rest, there was no doubt that the jockeying for position in the new royal court had begun. Ellin watched out of the corner of her eye as Tamzin made the rounds, talking softly with each member of her royal council, no doubt to curry favor. Judging by the warm reception he appeared to be getting, he was doing an admirable job.
Lord Kailindar seemed to be doing much the same thing, although with less obvious success. He did not have Tamzin’s easy charm, and based on his shadowed eyes, Ellin suspected that unlike his nephew, he was hampered by genuine grief. There was little doubt in her mind that the council would have much preferred to put Tamzin on the throne if they could have found a legal way around Kailindar’s stronger claim.
One thing that quickly became clear was that the rich and powerful noblemen of Rhozinolm were a lot more interested in striking up conversations with Tamzin—and to a lesser extent, Kailindar—than with her. Oh, no one was rude, and there was a continual shower of condolences being sent her way. But no one was treating the funeral as an opportunity to ingratiate themselves to their sovereign queen, which let her know exactly how much power they thought she had.
Grimly, she decided that tomorrow she would start scheduling private meetings with each of her councilors. Learning statecraft from books was not enough—she needed to understand each man’s role on the council. And make it clear that she meant to rule as a queen, not sit on the throne meekly as the puppet of the royal council.
The flames were continuing their inevitable decline into oblivion when Zarsha appeared at her elbow. She hadn’t realized she’d become lost in her thoughts as she stared into the fire until his sudden appearance at her side made her start.
“It is only me, Your Majesty,” he said with a smile that showed only the slightest sliver of his teeth. For all his natural good humor, even Zarsha honored the solemnity of the occasion by dimming his usually dazzling smile. “How are you holding up?”
“As well as can be expected, I suppose.” She took as deep a breath as the smoky air and her stays would allow. Soon, the ordeal will be over, she told herself. Not that tomorrow wasn’t likely to be just as unpleasant. She would need to name either Tamzin or Kailindar to the royal council, and either choice had serious drawbacks. She did not relish the thought of having Tamzin present at every council meeting—and whispering in every council member’s ear. But neither did she relish overriding her council’s wishes. She’d studied enough to know this was one of the few decisions for which she did not require the council’s approval, but perhaps it was unwise to start her reign on adversarial footing.
Zarsha dropped his voice, though there was no one standing near enough to overhear them. “You rose admirably to Lord Tamzin’s challenge.”
She considered feigning ignorance, but there seemed little point when Zarsha had obviously interpreted the interchange the same way she had. She lifted her shoulders in a slight shrug. “This is neither the time nor the place for posturing.”
The corner of his mouth twitched and his eyes twinkled, but he suppressed the smile before it fully bloomed. She was almost tempted to smile herself, for the moment the pyre had been lit, every man in attendance had begun posturing and vying for position.
“I’m sure you already know this, but both of them have their eyes on the lord chamberlain’s seat.”
“And Lord Kailindar may be the only man in attendance who believes it will go to anyone but Lord Tamzin. Yes, I know. Although strangely neither one has yet approached me to convince me he deserves the seat, even knowing the decision is ultimately mine.”
Zarsha raised his eyebrows, but there was no true surprise in his expression. “It is assumed you will bow to the wisdom of your royal council,” he said in a tone that suggested he himself did not make the same assumption. She wondered why not.
“Whom would you appoint, were you in my position?” she asked out of curiosity.
“It would gall me,” he answered promptly, “but I would choose Tamzin.”
It was her turn to raise her eyebrows, for he did not seem to be as easily seduced by Tamzin’s charms as so many others were. “Oh? And why is that?”
“He will be furious if the honor goes to Kailindar, and he will take that fury home with him to nurture and grow where you cannot easily monitor him. I would not want a man with his popularity and power to rabble rouse behind my back. He would be dangerous on the council, but at least you could see the danger and counter it.”
“And the same cannot be said of Kailindar?”
Zarsha shook his head. “He will be insulted and sulky, but not so much as Tamzin, and he hasn’t Tamzin’s persuasive skills. The perceived insult would not be great enough to win people to his side.”
She nodded as she looked at the two men in question, one smiling in animated conversation, one dour and stoic as he listened with an air of distraction and did not speak.
“Of course,” Zarsha said with another of his small smiles, “I am not the one who would have to sit in council meetings with him and watch credulous fools be blinded by his charms.”
She cast a sharp glance his way. “It seems you’ve formed a remarkably strong opinion of Lord Tamzin on short acquaintance. Have you met before?”
“No. But my father was a diplomat, and I’ve spent my entire life bouncing from court to court to court. I know his type all too well.”
She made a noncommittal noise, thinking his familiarity with courts outside Nandel explained a lot. Like why there was no trace of Mountain Tongue, the unlovely language of Nandel, in his accent. And why he knew the steps to popular court dances when dancing was considered frivolous and common in Nandel. And maybe even why his charm so often struck a false note with her—he was so used to making himself “fit in” with foreign courts that he naturally kept his true self hidden from view.
“When will you be returning home?” she asked, for despite his stated intention to continue courting her, he had no reason to remain in Rhozinolm.
“Eager to be rid of me?”
She gave him a quelling look.
“I am awaiting instructions from my uncle,” he said. “He will likely have a new assignment for me now that I am unattached once more.”
“You don’t sound especially eager to return to Nandel,” she ventured. Most of the Nandelites she’d ever met had given her the impression they found Rhozinolm to be a decadent den of iniquity they could not wait to escape.
Zarsha grinned at her with genuine humor, until he remembered he was at a funeral and instantly sobered. “Let’s just say that my relationship with my uncle improves with distance. I suspect that if you and I had married, we would have lived in The Keep for at most a year before he decided to post me elsewhere. Thanks to my other rather prolific uncles, I am far enough down the line of succession that my presence at court is not strictly necessary.”
Considering how Sovereign Prince Waldmir was reputed to treat those closest to him, she supposed being sent away wasn’t much of a hardship for Zarsha, after all.
“And now I suppose I have taken up enough of your time,” he said with an almost hurried bow.
She sighed when she spotted both Tamzin and Kailindar heading her way, probably to compete for the honor of handing her into her carriage. She quickly reached out and hooked her arm through Zarsha’s elbow.
“You won’t mind escorting me to my carriage, will you?” she asked and was gratef
ul when Zarsha played along so smoothly and effortlessly that no one watching would have noticed she initiated the contact herself.
“You do me a great honor, Your Majesty,” he said, the slight twinkle in his eye betraying his amusement.
Ellin could only imagine the sour faces Tamzin and Kailindar made behind her back.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Chanlix Rai-Chanwynne felt like a fraud. It had been barely ten years since she had spent her days and nights working the pavilion, though happily she was not a great beauty and had never been in great demand. But surely a woman of her age had no business being the abbess. There were a dozen older and more experienced women who were better suited to the job, and yet here she was, occupying the abbess’s office and looking out her high window as the Women’s Market opened for the first time since the flood.
It was far too early, of course. The Harbor District was still in shambles. There were no inns or taverns or street markets to draw patrons with money to the district, and though the streets were now passable and most of the demolition had been completed, the air was still foul with the scent of rot and mildew and death.
The only people who came to the Harbor District were those who had no other choice, like the soldiers of the Citadel, and those who were tasked with the cleaning and rebuilding that would likely take years to complete. The Abbey itself still required a great deal of cleaning and repairs, but the trade minister had ordered that the abigails drop everything and reopen the market, and Chanlix had no choice but to obey.
The abigails had only been able to cobble together enough magic items and potions to set up five tables, and the women whose job it was to work the pavilion were sitting on the floor in loose clusters, having nothing better to do than talk to one another to pass the time. To no one’s surprise, not a single customer had passed through the Abbey’s gates, and Chanlix wondered whether she dared defy the trade minister’s order and let everyone return to their chores. After all, if a customer were to suddenly appear out of nowhere, she could pull someone aside to serve.
She sighed and shook her head. She might not consider herself worthy of the position of abbess, but it had been thrust upon her, and it was her duty to protect—to the best of her ability—all the women who were under her care and direction. She had already seen what Prince Delnamal could do when he suspected someone had defied him. If she were to defy the trade minister’s orders and the prince were to find out, she would put the very lives of her abigails at risk, and that she dared not do.
Just outside the Abbey’s gates, easily as bored as the women in the market, was the squadron of soldiers the prince had sent to “guard” the Abbey. Chanlix could only imagine Prince Delnamal had devised this duty as a way to torment his half-brother, Tynthanal. To think that the women of the Abbey required any prison guards, much less twenty of them with a lieutenant commander to lead them, was absurd. She had to admit, however, that she was glad the men were under Tynthanal’s direction. A leader from the same mold as Delnamal would have used his position to take sore advantage of the women of the Abbey, but there had been not a hint of improper behavior from any of the lieutenant commander’s men.
Something glinted in the sun, and Chanlix saw a small bird flying through the sky toward the Abbey from the direction of the cliffs. She frowned and looked more closely, because of course birds didn’t glint in the sunlight. The creature continued arrowing toward the Abbey, making a steady descent and traveling in too straight a line to be strictly natural.
The flier dipped when it reached the Abbey’s gates and hovered by Tynthanal’s shoulder instead of flying into the Abbey’s message box. Sending a flier to a specific person instead of to a location required a more powerful, complex spell, which suggested the message was of some urgency. Tynthanal had been deep in conversation with one of his men, but when he saw the flier, he extended his hand. The device flew to him and released a scroll from its talons.
There was no particular reason Chanlix should find the appearance of that flier unnerving or have any notion that it had anything to do with the Abbey, and yet a chill of unease traveled down her spine. She watched Tynthanal read the message and wished he were not so far away. She would have liked to have seen the expression on his face.
Her fears that the flier brought bad tidings were confirmed when Tynthanal had a few words with his men and then entered the Abbey’s gates.
“What now?” Chanlix asked out loud. She’d tried not to think about it too much, but the ominous flier reminded her of the three abigails who’d been arrested and taken by Prince Delnamal. She was certain that Mother Brynna had told no one about the spell she and her daughter and her granddaughter had cast. None of them had been foolish or stupid, and they knew full well that their actions would endanger all of the abigails. It would have been the height of folly—and cruelty—to share their secrets with anyone who could reveal them in the aftermath. But Chanlix knew all too well how the royal inquisitor could extract the information he wanted to hear out of a wretched prisoner who was desperate for the pain to stop. She had entered the Abbey at the age of fifteen when her unmarried mother had “confessed” to having poisoned her father. The charge had been leveled by her father’s jealous wife, and it was absurd. Neither Chanlix nor her mother had set eyes on the man since Chanlix was five years old. But her mother had confessed anyway, condemning herself to death and her daughter to the Abbey because the inquisitor had not believed her denial.
Chanlix took a seat in front of the bare fireplace. There was a distinct chill in the air that would have made the fire’s warmth more than welcome, but the Abbey’s stock of firewood had all been swept away with the flood waters, and there was hardly enough money in their coffers at the moment to keep everyone fed, especially when there was little chance of the Women’s Market bringing in any coin in the near future.
It was not long before Tynthanal appeared in her doorway, and it took no more than one quick glance to confirm that he was the bearer of bad tidings. He had a naturally kind face—and a remarkably handsome one—and very expressive eyes. Currently, she read sorrow, and pity, and a great dose of anger.
She had thought to receive whatever news he came bearing while seated serenely by the fireplace, but the look in his eyes frightened her so much she could not so easily sit still. She stood up and faced him squarely, knowing her fear was plain in her face.
“What has happened?” she asked, certain that she had at least an inkling what the answer would be.
“I have a…contact at the palace,” he said.
“A spy, you mean.”
He gave her a quelling look, though he didn’t seem offended or outraged by the charge. Nor did he deny it. “Your abigails have confessed to conspiring with the late abbess.”
She made a sound between a gasp and a sob, even though she’d known her poor sisters would be vulnerable to the inquisitor’s persuasions. One did not live to become an old woman in the Abbey without learning to survive a great deal of both physical and emotional pain, so she did not want to imagine what her sisters had suffered to make them confess to crimes they did not commit. Especially knowing that their admissions would most certainly condemn them to death.
Chanlix decided she needed that chair after all, her knees weakening and her eyes burning with unshed tears. She had loved Mother Brynna dearly, and still mourned her loss, but she cursed her, as well. The late abbess might not have known all the details of the damage her spell would create, but she had known the consequences would be significant and that the women of the Abbey would suffer for it.
Had she foreseen the earthquake and the flood? Had she foreseen three harmless old women being arrested and tortured simply for being old women of the Abbey? Mother Brynna had often told Chanlix she had the makings of an abbess, but those comments took on new shades of meaning now.
Chanlix had no handkerchief, so she used the sleeve of her robes to
wipe some of the tears from her cheeks. “What will become of us?” she asked under her breath.
She did not expect an answer, but Tynthanal knelt at her feet and reached up to take one of her hands in both of his. She met his eyes, grateful for the small kindness. Until she saw from his expression that he had yet more bad news to impart.
“The king has ordered that the Abbey be razed.”
She looked at him with incomprehension. “What?”
“The Abbey will be torn down.”
“But…but…what will happen to all the women?” And where would the noble families send their unwanted daughters and wives, for there seemed to be a never-ending supply of those? Especially given the number of marriages that were crumbling in the aftermath of Mother Brynna’s spell. The spell she knew others were beginning to refer to as the Curse.
“The Abbey is to be rebuilt.” He drew out the scroll he had received from the flier, spreading it open so that she could see the map that had been drawn at the bottom of the page.
The map spanned all of Aaltah, from the coastal city of Aalwell all the way to the border of the Wasteland. And right on that border was marked a star to indicate the Abbey’s new home.
Her mouth dropped open, and for a long moment she could not form a coherent thought.
The Wasteland was entirely uninhabitable, a vast barren desert devoid of life and devoid of elements. For miles before the true Wasteland began, elements and life were so sparse that there were no towns or villages or even solitary settlements.
Through all of history, it had always been clear that though the Abbey was peopled by unwanted women, the Abbey itself—and the services of those women, both magical and sexual—was indeed wanted. But if they were truly to be relocated in the desert so near the Wasteland, then the Crown had decided they were entirely unwanted, after all.