by Jenna Glass
Tynthanal was not a common foot soldier: he’d been lieutenant commander of the Citadel, with the heavy expectation that he would one day be the lord commander. He’d received extensive training in tactics and strategy, and he was fully capable of planning for contingencies he saw coming down the road, no matter how distant they might seem.
“You don’t want those Trapper spells larger because they make us useful,” Chanlix said. “You think when our activities come to light we will be in danger no matter how valuable we’ve made ourselves.”
“That is one possibility for our future,” he admitted, though she could see he was tempted to offer comforting lies instead. One of the things she admired most about him was his ability to put aside the notion that women should at all times be protected from the unpleasant truth. “We crossed a dangerous line when we sent that flier to Melcor, and we cross another dangerous one when we bribe a royal tax collector. If I were the King of Aaltah, and I learned of what we have done out here in Women’s Well, I might be inclined to brand us traitors to the Crown rather than celebrate our accomplishments. As much as I might want to protect my niece from Delnamal’s marriage plans, I’d rather Alys focus her considerable talents on spells that might help defend us should the worst happen.
“My father isn’t the kind of king who would condemn the townspeople for what we’ve done, but if we can create a Trapper spell large enough and strong enough to provide a securely hidden location for those at the greatest risk, I would sleep better at night.”
That would require an exceedingly large spell—or a large number of smaller ones—for all of the abigails and all of Tynthanal’s men would likely face the king’s wrath if he condemned them, to say nothing of Alys.
“We’re stepping closer and closer to outright rebellion, aren’t we?” Chanlix asked softly as a lump of dread formed in her stomach.
“We’re certainly flirting with it,” he affirmed. “I think that if we can choose the time and the circumstances under which the king learns the truth about what we’ve been doing here, we can present it in such a way as to make it palatable. Everything we’ve done—except for that Kai spell—can be of benefit to the Crown, and he will see that and understand.”
She gave him a wry smile. “And bribing the tax collector? Is that of benefit to the Crown?”
Tynthanal snorted. “Are you suggesting that Julvin and the rest are not already well accustomed to accepting bribes? Or that they are any more eager than we for those bribes to be made public?”
Chanlix tried to take comfort from that very reasonable argument. It was in Julvin’s best interests in more ways than one to stick to their agreement. But they couldn’t bribe every visitor to the town, and eventually the lord commander—and therefore the king—would start to wonder at the conflict between Tynthanal’s reports and the rumors that were spreading throughout the kingdom.
* * *
—
Jinnell waited somewhat nervously in the anteroom to the king’s chambers. She had been visiting him periodically ever since her mother had left, hoping that if she formed a closer relationship with him, he’d be less likely to send her away to Nandel. She had a feeling he knew exactly what she was up to—there was no missing the intelligence in his eyes—but he seemed to enjoy her visits nonetheless. Because of his strained relationship with her mother, she had seen very little of him growing up, and it was clear he felt the lack.
Today, he had sent word that she should not come, that he was feeling poorly—but she had come anyway. It was a rare king who would welcome defiance from any of his subjects—even his own family—but Jinnell had made the calculated guess that he would see her visit as a sign of her deep affection. It was worth the risk of catching his cold if she could endear herself to him further. She patted her reticule to feel the little vial of potion she had brought with her.
Since her first rather unfortunate attempt to create a healing potion on her own, Jinnell had learned that it did indeed contain an element that she could not see—a feminine element called Leel, which was associated with digestion. There were a fair number of potions—like most healing potions—that tended to irritate sensitive stomachs, and adding Leel to those potions eliminated that side effect. Leel occurred naturally in certain grain alcohols—which meant Jinnell could use it despite not being able to see it. All she had to do was use the right base fluid, and she could put together several minor healing spells—like cold tonics.
Knowing that cold tonics were in short supply since the removal of the Abbey, she had brought one of her own making—though naturally she would claim it had come from the household supply.
The door to the king’s private parlor opened, and his manservant stepped out. Jinnell held her breath, for it was entirely possible she would be told to go home and come again when the king was feeling better, but the manservant told her to enter.
“Don’t stay too long,” the manservant whispered as she went by, an imploring look in his eyes. “He is more ill than he cares to admit.”
It was a shocking break of protocol for the servant to speak to her so frankly, and the feeling of unease that had been with her since she’d chosen to ignore the king’s advice to stay away strengthened. She looked up at the servant with wide eyes, but he had reverted to more formal behavior and was staring straight ahead, his face a bland mask.
“Well, come in already,” the king’s voice called, and it was so hoarse she could barely recognize it as his.
Jinnell stepped into the parlor, and it was all she could do not to gasp in dismay when she saw her grandfather, sitting wrapped up in a heavy blanket in front of the fire. His face had little color, save for the rosiness imparted by the glow of the fire, and his eyes looked dark and sunken. There was a sheen of perspiration on his brow, and yet he was shivering.
For all that, he still managed a wry smile, and there was genuine warmth in his eyes. “I look that bad, do I?”
Jinnell swallowed hard and dipped into a curtsy, her heart hammering. The king’s message telling her not to come had said he had a head cold, but clearly this was something far worse.
“Of course not, Your Majesty,” she murmured.
“Hmpf,” the king snorted, but that brought on a fit of wet coughing that was painful to hear. When the fit passed, he spit discreetly into a handkerchief and sighed. “I have avoided my own reflection,” he rasped, “for fear of what it would tell me.”
Jinnell crossed the room, kneeling on the floor by his feet and gazing anxiously up into his face. Her purpose for visiting him had been entirely self-serving at the start, but just as their continued contact had made him more fond of her, she’d found herself more fond of him, as well. Always before, she had seen her grandfather through the lens of her mother’s anger. Now she saw him for what he truly was: a kindhearted man who carried the weight of the kingdom on his shoulders and suffered under that burden.
“You should not have come,” he scolded her gently. “And most especially you should not sit so close to me. I wouldn’t want you to catch whatever this is I have.”
Jinnell had no desire to catch it, either, but she stayed right where she was. “You should take better care of yourself, Grandpapa,” she said, mimicking his scolding voice as best she could. “Surely there are potions that could make you better.” Though she doubted the one she had brought with her was strong enough to do the job.
The king sighed and laid his head against the back of his chair. “It’s just a head cold that has sunk into my chest,” he said. “It will pass.”
Jinnell shook her head at him. “I’m no healer, but anyone can see this is more than a simple cold.”
“For reasons that need not concern you, my advisers would prefer I forgo healing potions if I can.”
“By advisers, you mean Uncle Delnamal, don’t you?” She could well imagine her uncle whispering into the king’s ear about the dan
gers of women’s healing potions. No doubt those whispers had only strengthened the moment Mama had arrived at the new Abbey, for Delnamal would see that as a way to further sow distrust between the king and his eldest children.
The king’s eyes narrowed, and Jinnell cursed herself for speaking out of turn. Her mother had warned her that the king would hear no ill of his son, and Jinnell had found out for herself that such was the case.
“I mean advisers,” he said in a repressive tone. His stern expression crumpled as another coughing spasm shook him.
Jinnell reached out helplessly to put what she hoped was a comforting hand on his arm. Even through the heavy blanket, she could feel the heat that radiated from his body.
“You’re burning up,” she said, touching his forehead with the back of her hand.
He pushed her hand away, though there was no impatience in the gesture. His breath wheezed in and out of his lungs, and the tight look around his eyes said it hurt. “I’ll be fine,” he assured her, when he could manage it, but his voice was weaker, and he looked exhausted.
Jinnell pulled her little vial of potion from her reticule. “I brought you this,” she said, wishing she’d known how sick he was before she’d come. She didn’t know how to make any stronger healing potion, but she could have at least looked in the cabinets at home to see if they had anything she could bring him. “I thought you had a cold, so it might not do any good, but…” She held the vial out to him.
The king hesitated for a moment, then sighed and took the vial. “We’d best keep this our little secret,” he advised with a conspiratorial smile.
“You think your, uh, advisers would suspect me of trying to poison you?”
It showed how poorly he was feeling that he didn’t respond to her pointed comment with more than a tiny shake of his head. She watched as he unstopped the vial and swallowed the potion in one great gulp, then grimaced at the taste. She winced in sympathy, imagining the burn of the alcohol must feel especially bad on his ravaged throat. He handed her back the empty vial.
“Thank you, my child,” he said. “You are as thoughtful as you are disobedient.”
She responded with a tremulous smile. “You need something stronger.”
“It’s just an ague,” he argued. “Nothing to worry about.”
“Maybe not if you were my age.”
He groaned softly, but a smile played upon the edges of his lips. “You are so like your mother. She is never one to mince words.” He reached out and cupped her cheek, and it was all she could do not to recoil at the feel of his hot, sweaty palm.
“Please, Grandpapa. Please take a stronger potion.”
He closed his eyes and rested the back of his head against his chair. “All right, child,” he finally said. “I’ll ask the queen to track one down for me. I’m sure there are plenty of families who keep stockpiles. And if I can’t find the appropriate potion, I’ll send word to Tynthanal, and he’ll send me one from the new Abbey. No one would suspect him of wishing me harm.”
Jinnell wasn’t sure that was true. Delnamal seemed able to think ill of just about anyone, and triply so for anyone related to her late grandmother. But she was so relieved at the king’s agreement to take a stronger potion that she kept that opinion to herself.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Ellin used the secret passageways—to which she now had a full map—to intercept Zarsha and Graesan before they left the palace without having her honor guard hovering over her shoulder. Zarsha had kindly offered to “escort” Graesan on his way out of the city to begin his journey to Nandel, and he had urged Ellin to stay away. She agreed with him in theory—setting eyes on Graesan right now was rather like being punched in the stomach—but she couldn’t let him walk out of her life without a goodbye.
Zarsha gave her an exasperated look when she stepped out of the shadows in front of them, and Graesan quickly looked down at his feet, unable to face her. It was strange to see him out of his uniform, dressed as an ordinary gentleman in riding breeches. She noticed immediately that the bruises on his face had been healed—no doubt to avoid any uncomfortable questions about how he’d gotten them—but there was a strange stiffness to the way he carried himself, and she instantly suspected there were unhealed bruises hiding beneath his clothing. Zarsha confirmed her suspicion when he slapped at Graesan’s ribs, causing Graesan to gasp and wince.
“Bow when you see your queen,” Zarsha reminded him nastily as he sketched his own courteous bow.
The look Graesan gave him would have melted steel, but he did as he was told, bowing low as his face tightened even more with pain. Ellin imagined a long ride on horseback would be terribly unpleasant, but it was hard to argue Graesan didn’t deserve some suffering.
“Don’t be petty,” she said to Zarsha, who smiled unrepentantly.
“Not only did I spare his life, but I’m also giving him a graceful exit and decent wages after he tried to knife me in my sleep. I think I should be forgiven a little pettiness here and there, don’t you?”
She supposed that was true, though she wasn’t about to admit it. Ellin stared at the man she loved, her heart breaking all over again.
“Won’t you even look at me?” she whispered, afraid she was going to start crying.
Zarsha gave Graesan’s shoulder an overly hardy pat, making him wince again. “I’ll just wait for you down the hall,” he said, striding away. “Don’t forget to tell her what you told me.”
Graesan gave his retreating back another molten look, and Ellin hoped Zarsha wasn’t going to inspire another murder attempt.
“What did you tell him?” she asked to distract his attention.
Graesan took a deep breath—the tightening of his eyes said that, too, hurt—then met her gaze. “I’m sorry.” He swallowed hard, and she could see how badly he wanted to look away once more. “I let jealousy get the better of me and listened to rumors I should have known were suspect.”
Her eyebrows rose. “What rumors?”
“I don’t think he truly knows anything, but Lord Tamzin is aware that I…care about you more than a proper secretary should. It started out with him dropping hints here or there, not speaking directly to me but letting me overhear his innuendo. He suggested that Zarsha was still here because he had designs on you, and that you were too naïve to see the dangers.”
Ellin suppressed a shiver and hoped her face didn’t give anything away. She didn’t want to know what Graesan would say or do if he knew that Zarsha had been quite open about his motives—and that she had let him stay anyway.
“You say that was how it started,” she prompted.
Graesan nodded. “He began talking to me directly, asking me to advise you to send Zarsha home. I told him I didn’t have that kind of influence on you, but he didn’t believe me.”
“But you did as he said. You advised me to send Zarsha away.” Her voice came out sharp as she remembered their argument, remembered Graesan’s vehemence.
“I thought Tamzin was right. I thought Zarsha was a clever spy who was working his way under your skin and getting too firm a foothold. Then when you told me he knew about us…” He shuddered.
Ellin closed her eyes and fantasized about slipping a knife between Tamzin’s ribs. Apparently, starting the rumor suggesting she was considering him as a potential husband had not stopped him from scheming, after all. Tamzin might not have known about her trysts with Graesan, but he’d clearly known Graesan loved her, just as he clearly knew Zarsha was a potential threat to his influence.
“You thought Tamzin was right, and Zarsha was already blackmailing me.”
“Yes. I thought I was protecting you.”
Her eyes burned with tears for which she had no patience. She blinked them away. She wasn’t sure if Graesan’s motives made her feel better or worse. She was glad there was more than simple jealousy behind it, but it hurt to see s
uch clear evidence of how little he’d trusted her judgment.
Graesan swallowed hard. “I know I hurt you, and I can’t express how sorry I am for that. I let myself believe Zarsha was getting under your skin when the reality was it was Lord Tamzin getting under mine. I believed Tamzin’s innuendo and ignored your assurances, and for that I have no excuse.”
Her whole body twitched toward him, so desperate was she to put her arms around him and tuck herself into the comfort of his warmth. Her conscience twinged as she remembered her own lack of honesty. She had failed to tell him about Zarsha’s proposal because she wanted to protect him, which was uncomfortably close to his own motivations. She was still furious with him, and she doubted she could ever truly forgive him for what he’d tried to do, but she still loved him so much it hurt.
“Be careful with Tamzin, Ellin,” Graesan said. “He wants the throne more than anything in the world. Right now, he thinks you’re the key that will help him take it, and he’s focused on eliminating people who might be rivals or might talk you out of marrying him. But once he figures out you won’t give him what he wants…”
She nodded. “I know, Graesan. I don’t know what I’m going to do about him yet, but I know how much of a problem he is.”
Graesan surprised her by reaching out and taking her hands, squeezing them. “Promise me you won’t marry him.”
For a moment, she thought he meant Zarsha, and she wondered if she could lie convincingly to his face and tell him there was no chance of that ever happening. Then she realized he meant Tamzin, and she made what she was sure was an ugly face. “If that man ever takes the throne of Rhozinolm, it will be over my dead body,” she swore. Graesan paled, but she felt no inclination to take the words back. She would rather die than marry a man like Tamzin. Besides, it was her duty as queen to protect the kingdom, and that meant keeping manipulative, amoral, and cruel men like him off the throne.