by Jenna Glass
Still, Jinnell hesitated. Just because she couldn’t think of some other property the potion might need didn’t mean such a thing didn’t exist, and she had seen a small glimpse of what could happen when one used an incorrectly formulated potion. Maybe now that she’d already put together her own version of the potion, Mama would be willing to examine the two side by side and confirm that she wasn’t missing anything.
Then she sighed, for that was nothing but wishful thinking. Mama would never let her take the risk. If she wanted to test her ability to replicate a potion, she would have to do it in secret and tell Mama after the fact.
Impatient with her own dithering, she used a hairpin to draw a shallow scratch across her forearm, just barely enough to break the skin. She added a mote of Rho to the purchased potion, then drank it down, the sharp, mouth-puckering flavor making her grimace as it burned its way down her throat. As a child, she had always resisted taking the potion for her small hurts, preferring to suffer the pain than endure the taste, though her parents had occasionally overridden her wishes. Whatever the base liquid was, it clearly contained a high concentration of alcohol.
Moments after she downed the potion, the scratch on her arm knitted itself back together as she watched, until it faded to nothing but a thin red line that would be gone by morning. Nodding in satisfaction, she picked up the pin again and created an identical shallow scratch a little distance away from the first one. Then she activated her own potion and drank it down.
The first thing she noticed was that it tasted a lot better, though perhaps that was just because she was unused to whatever harder liquor had been used for the original. The wine of her potion had a slight, sour aftertaste as a result of the elements, but it was easy to ignore, and there was very little of that unpleasant burn in her throat.
Jinnell practically whooped in triumph when the little scratch sealed itself neatly, leaving a faint red line that was almost identical to the result of the first experiment. Mama would be furious with her for experimenting on her own, but surely this would be evidence that it was worth it!
Suddenly, and for no reason at all, her stomach gave an unhappy lurch. She closed her eyes and swallowed hard, thinking the nausea was a result of nerves and would soon pass. Her stomach twisted again, and she belched, tasting bile on the back of her tongue. She eyed her healing potion balefully. Surely it couldn’t be to blame. It contained little more than a spoonful of wine. Maybe it was the strong alcohol in the first potion that was making her stomach unhappy.
Sweat broke out on her brow, and her stomach made a nasty rumbling noise. Jinnell breathed deeply through her nose, trying to keep her gorge down. She’d never reacted this way to a healing potion before. Which, unless she could convince herself otherwise, suggested that her mother had been right and there was something in it that she couldn’t see.
For maybe fifteen minutes, she battled against the nausea, hoping it would fade away. Then she spent most of the rest of the night heaving into her chamber pot until near dawn when the nausea finally relented and she was able to snatch a couple of hours of sleep.
* * *
—
Semsulin gave Ellin one last disapproving look before stepping out of her private study and sending Graesan in. Ordinarily, her personal honor guard stayed at some remove when she was in the royal apartments, and Ellin could see that her summons had worried Graesan.
“You wished to see me, Your Majesty?” he inquired, bowing low and failing to hide his concern. He probably thought she was displeased with him or one of his men, the concern no doubt encouraged by Semsulin’s dour expression when he’d left the room.
Ellin smiled at him brightly and saw his concern change to puzzlement. Her pulse was pleasantly speeding, and she was genuinely excited to share some good news, despite Semsulin’s unsubtle opposition. She gestured toward a chair in front of her desk.
“Please have a seat,” she said with a grin she could not suppress.
Graesan’s eyebrows shot up in shock. “Excuse me? That would not—I mean…”
Her smile broadened as he continued to sputter. Members of her honor guard were never permitted to sit in her presence, and she had to admit she rather enjoyed seeing the usually stoic, unflappable Graesan put so off balance.
“I’m promoting you,” she said, pointing more insistently at the chair. “There is no breach in protocol if you sit when I invite you to.”
“Promoting me?” he said doubtfully, and still didn’t take a seat. “But I’m your master of the guard. How can…?”
“Graesan, sit down.” Thanks to his ignoble birth—and despite his father’s attempts to legitimize him—there was no question that master of the guard was an extraordinarily high rank for Graesan to achieve. She couldn’t blame him for being unprepared for a promotion of any kind, though it saddened her that he couldn’t just accept the honor as his due.
Eyes wide, a look of extreme discomfort on his face, Graesan sat on the very edge of one of the chairs, looking as if he was ready to leap to his feet at any moment. Ellin had imagined her announcement as a happy, joyful moment, and Graesan’s reaction was more than a little disconcerting. Semsulin’s resistance she had been expecting and was well prepared for, but Graesan’s she had not.
“I’m removing you from my honor guard and making you my personal secretary,” she told him. She was determined to take Star’s advice and make a more concerted effort to let Graesan know exactly how she felt about him, but as her master of the guard, he was so rarely alone with her that she had found little opportunity. Her personal secretary, however, would have many an excuse to be alone with her during the day, and though that contact would not be extended—or uninterrupted—they would both be able to drop their public façades every once in a while.
Graesan shook his head as he scanned her face. “That would be most unwise, Your Majesty,” he said. And, damn him, he rose from the chair once more.
Ellin sighed and leaned back in her own chair, hating the fact that Graesan had to pay such a price for his father’s indiscretion. It wasn’t Graesan’s fault his father hadn’t been able to keep his hands off a housemaid.
“I understand all the reasons why it would be an unconventional move,” she assured him. “Believe me, Semsulin made certain of that.”
“Then you should listen to your lord chancellor.”
“No,” she said decisively. “I need my personal secretary to be someone I can trust and with whom I feel comfortable. There is no one else I can think of who meets that description.”
“I’m a bastard, and my mother was a housemaid!” he protested, his cheeks suffused with color. “I am not an appropriate choice for this position.”
“Your father gave you his name for a reason,” she explained calmly, “and—”
To her shock—and, by the look on his face, his own—Graesan interrupted her. “He cannot make me legitimate just by giving me his name, no matter how badly he would like to think so. There are a great many people who will be scandalized at the thought of a housemaid’s son becoming personal secretary to the queen. You have enough challenges to your rule already.”
“I’ve been through this with Semsulin.” Who’d told her she was being stubborn and childish, although he had grudgingly been forced to admit she was within her rights. “While some people may disapprove, there is a limit to how scandalized people can be over the appointment of any member of my household staff. I’m not bestowing a title or a land grant upon you, so there’s little anyone can do but mutter.” She rose to her feet and moved around the desk so she could be closer to eye level with him.
“Accept this honor and the pay raise that comes with it,” she urged him. Technically, he had no say in his promotion and was not free to refuse it, but it would hardly be an auspicious beginning to her planned seduction to force his hand. “You deserve it for your years of loyal service.”
“Are you worried about how your fellow guardsmen will take it?” she asked softly, moving just into the edge of his personal space. The sharpening of his gaze told her he was very much aware of her proximity, though he made no effort to move away.
“Those who already dislike me cannot dislike me any more than they already do,” he said. “They call me Graesan Rai-Summer within my hearing to try to put me in my place. And that is my true name, no matter what my father says.”
“But it is not your legal name,” she insisted. “Appearances matter, and Graesan Rah-Brondar is of sufficient rank to be secretary to the queen even if Graesan Rai-Summer is not.” She edged even closer, staring up into his face in what she hoped was an intimate way. “I will spend a great deal of time with my personal secretary,” she said in a low murmur, and was rewarded with a distinct darkening of Graesan’s eyes. “And some of that time will be in private.”
“Perhaps that is another reason why the promotion would be unwise,” he said, his voice suddenly hoarse.
“Or perhaps it’s the best reason of all for you to accept it.” She reached out tentatively to touch his chest. He was in uniform, of course, wearing mail under his tabard, so the touch was not as satisfying as it might have been, but she shivered and he gasped all the same.
Ellin thought perhaps she was finally breaking through, but Graesan took a hasty step back.
“Don’t fool yourself into believing we are really in private,” he said with a pointed look at the closed study door.
She felt his rejection like a slap in the face, despite his very practical explanation for it. “And if we were truly in private,” she asked, “would you still have backed away from me?”
“We will never be truly in private,” he said gently, and there was no missing the hint of regret in his voice. “Even if I am your personal secretary. If that’s the only reason you wish to promote me—”
“It’s not!” she protested, and it truly wasn’t. Though admittedly, it ranked high on her list of priorities. She couldn’t bear to put the distance of the desk between them once more, but she moved farther out of his personal space.
“I need a friend, Graesan,” she said, and for the first time in what felt like forever, she stopped trying to put on a brave face. “I am surrounded by people who are constantly making demands of me while picking apart my every word, my every move, my every facial expression for signs of weakness.” Tears stung her eyes, though she blinked quickly to clear them. “I need someone by my side with whom I don’t have to pretend all the time. Someone who sees me, rather than Queen Ellinsoltah.”
“You have friends…” he started, but he knew as well as she that the friends she grew up with were no longer enough. Many of them had married and moved away, and those who had not…What did Queen Ellinsoltah have in common with an unmarried miss whose life revolved around balls and parties and finding a husband?
“I need you,” she said simply. “I won’t insist you accept the promotion if you truly don’t want it, but if there’s any way you can see your way clear…”
Ellin was not strictly proud of herself or her behavior. She was quite aware that she was being manipulative, and though she would have liked to blame it on the influence of her courtiers, she knew it was all on her. But for this short time when she was a sovereign queen and unmarried, she had opportunities she would never again have in her life, and she was determined to take advantage of them. Graesan’s rejection had stung, but the sting was eased by his obvious desire to accept her offers—both the one she’d voiced and the one she hadn’t. And as long as he accepted the promotion, she would have other chances to change his mind.
“I still believe it is…imprudent,” Graesan said. “For more reasons than one.”
“But will you accept?”
His shoulders lowered in something very like defeat. “Of course I will accept.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Chanlix had never seen anything like the parched, barren land that the abigails were now traveling through. Instead of lush forest or fertile fields, everything around her was hard-packed dirt that gave off great clouds of dust with every footstep. The squadron of soldiers had kindly spread out to both sides of their straggling caravan, trying their best to keep the women from having to walk through the dust the horses and chevals and wagons kicked up, but the changeable winds made it impossible to escape entirely. Chanlix’s skin felt gritty, even under the sweltering weight of her robes and wimple, as if the wind-borne dust and sand had passed right through the thickly woven fabric and adhered to every drop of sweat that coated her body.
Having never traveled outside of Aalwell before, Chanlix had never imagined such a land could exist, and the idea that the Wasteland itself was even more desolate was almost impossible to credit. For the last half day of travel, she had seen no hint of green. Even the small, scraggly bushes and grasses that grew in this inhospitable territory had a grayish tint that made them look half dead.
The journey to the Abbey’s new location would have turned into a death march for the oldest and frailest of the abigails, had not Tynthanal been the one charged with their care. There were no horses or chevals for the women’s use, and the wagons were too overloaded for passengers, but whenever someone seemed to be struggling, Tynthanal or one of his men would lift the woman onto his horse to give her a respite. He also refused to push them as hard as his orders specified, so the journey had already lasted several days longer than predicted.
Every day that Chanlix awoke, her body ached just a little more, her joints stiff and swollen and ever more reluctant to obey her orders. Maidel had many times urged her to take a healing potion, but as badly as her body hurt, Chanlix knew there were those with greater need.
She had entered into something of a daze, laboring to put one foot in front of the other, her eyes glazed and dull as the sun baked her skin and sucked the strength from her body. She was so dazed and distant that she did not even notice the approaching hoofbeats until a strong arm wrapped around her waist. She blinked and made a little bleat of alarm as her feet left the ground and she was hauled up until she was sitting on the horse’s back. She gripped the arm around her waist and grabbed a handful of the horse’s mane.
“Don’t worry, Mother Chanlix,” Tynthanal said with a laugh in his voice, “I will not let you fall.”
Throughout this journey, she had repeatedly asked him not to call her Mother. She was only four years his senior, and she still felt like an impostor. It made her uncomfortable enough when the abigails addressed her by that title, but it somehow sounded even stranger coming from this handsome soldier who was practically the same age as she.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she complained, although her body sagged in relief at not having to work so hard, at least for this short time. “Put me down.”
“Why?”
She wriggled, though her efforts to free herself were half-hearted at best. The last thing her body needed was a fall off a horse. She felt brittle enough to break into a thousand pieces if she hit that unyielding earth from this height.
“Because I am fully capable of walking,” she said tartly.
He snorted. “You realize you’re the only woman here who has walked every step of this journey so far, don’t you?”
“I am not!” she protested, though in truth she hadn’t put any thought into it. It was true that most of the women, even the youngest ones, had occasionally spent at least a small stretch of time on horseback, but surely not all of them.
&nb
sp; Tynthanal showed no inclination to set her back down, and if truth be told, she had no great inclination to fight him. It was her duty as the abbess to rule her women by example, and up till now, she’d considered trudging along on her own two feet the only proper example to set. But perhaps a more important example was to accept help when it was needed, and every inch of her body groaned that she needed it.
She was exhausted in both mind and body, by the long and arduous journey and by the weight of being named abbess with absolutely no preparation. Bad enough when they’d all been living within the familiar halls of the Abbey, with familiar, if often unpleasant, duties. What was she meant to do now, in this very different world?
Tynthanal’s arm remained snugly around her waist, the reins held loosely in his other hand as his horse moved steadily forward with no visible guidance. They had been following a road up until this morning, when they’d passed through the tiniest, saddest village Chanlix had ever seen. The only reason Miller’s Bridge was able to survive so far from any Well was that it was situated on the banks of the Endless River, which flowed from some unknown source deep in the Wasteland. The water made a few small, fertile fields possible and fueled a mill, but it was a place where life would always be difficult. The eponymous Miller’s Bridge that crossed over the river was the end of the official road, though after crossing the river the earth was so hard-packed an actual road wasn’t needed.
“How do you know we’re going the right direction?” Chanlix asked. Every way she turned her head, she saw nothing but flat, dusty land, with no hint of a recognizable landmark.
“I have a compass,” Tynthanal said, patting a small satchel that hung from the saddle. “But I’m not using it for guidance just now. We actually passed the spot where we were supposed to build the new Abbey about an hour ago.”