by Jenna Glass
“I say it does,” Shelvon said. “I am the queen, and I am the boy’s guardian while the king is away. When the king returns, he may well overrule me, but he is not here now.”
Master Wilbaad was not used to having his authority challenged, and Shelvon feared his masculine pride would not allow him to bend to a woman’s will. But in the end, she was the Queen of Aaltah, and he had no authority to countermand her.
“You will spoil the child with your tender heart,” he said stiffly, then sketched a perfunctory bow. “Your Majesty.”
She sighed in relief as he left the room, all offended dignity and moral superiority. But it was far too soon for relief.
Scant moments after Wilbaad had left, the door to Corlin’s room opened, and he and Falcor cautiously stepped out into the sitting room. Falcor had brought the boy a pain relief potion, but while it lessened the pain, it did not heal the bruises and welts and the damage they had caused. The boy walked stiffly and awkwardly, and Shelvon couldn’t imagine what it would feel like to ride a cheval in his condition. Corlin needed the attentions of a healer, but they could not approach one when the king had expressly forbidden it.
“I’ll be all right, Aunt Shelvon,” Corlin assured her. “Don’t worry about me.”
Instinctively, she reached for him, wanting to hug him, but Falcor grabbed her wrist at the same moment she jerked her hand back and curled her fingers into her palm. It would be frighteningly easy to discharge the ring’s sleep spell accidentally. Corlin paled a bit at the interplay, staring at the ring with a look that combined longing and fear and anger. He knew it was Jinnell’s, knew his sister had given away their mother’s gifts for his protection. He’d been so angry—and guilt-stricken—that Shelvon had feared she would have to use the ring’s spell on him, though how they would escape while carrying an unconscious boy she didn’t know.
“Let’s go,” Falcor urged. “The quicker, the better.”
There were fewer servants and guards in the residential wing of the palace than usual, as many of them had accompanied the king and Jinnell. Shelvon walked as though there was nothing unusual going on, her left hand on Corlin’s shoulder as if she were guiding him through the halls, Falcor trailing behind. Propriety insisted she not leave the residential wing of the palace without her honor guard, but she avoided that necessity by using the ring to put the master of the guard to sleep before he summoned his men—or even saw her coming.
“Now things get a little more difficult,” Falcor muttered as they proceeded cautiously down a back staircase.
If they were to be seen outside the residential wing, Shelvon’s lack of a full honor guard would be instantly regarded and questioned, so they crept down disused corridors and back staircases until they reached the level of the kitchens. Falcor hustled them into a small storeroom and pulled a large satchel out from behind a crate of bottled preserves so old the tops were coated with dust. He opened the satchel and withdrew a drab servant’s kirtle and apron for Shelvon, and an equally drab doublet and breeches for Corlin.
“Change as quickly as you can,” he urged. “From the looks of it, this storage room is rarely used, but I can’t guarantee no one will come.”
Shelvon felt the color rushing to her face and cursed her own naïveté. Falcor had said he had secured disguises for her and Corlin, but she had somehow imagined the disguise would consist of some outer wrapping—perhaps a hooded cloak. She had not expected to have to change her clothes, and the storage room was far too small to afford her any privacy.
“Corlin and I will look away,” Falcor promised, turning his back and staring at the door.
Corlin looked almost as uncomfortable as Shelvon felt, but he also turned toward the door as he began unfastening his elegant doublet. Not wishing to catch even a glimpse of the wounds the brutal tutor had left on the boy’s flesh, Shelvon also turned her back and started fumbling with the laces on her gown. Her hands were shaking, and her eyes burned with tears of humiliation, try though she might to scold herself out of her prudish horror of undressing in the presence of men. She reminded herself how important the disguise was, and that neither Falcor nor Corlin was looking at her. She reminded herself that she had found the courage to stand up to Delnamal and to Master Wilbaad. She reminded herself of Jinnell’s bravery in turning over her magic items to help save her brother, and her own desire to be even half that brave. And still the tears insisted on dripping down her nose as she struggled with the laces and pins.
“May we turn yet?” Falcor asked softly, and all she had managed so far was to unlace the front of the bodice.
“No!” she cried, too loudly, then winced at the sound of her own voice. Her shoulders drooped, and she realized if she were to continue trying to get herself out of the dress, she would still be here an hour later. “I—I need help,” she admitted, feeling like a small and helpless child. Not for the first time, she longed for the simple fashions of Nandel, though admittedly that was the only thing she missed about her homeland.
She heard a rustle of movement, then Falcor’s hands were plucking at pins and untying laces along her back. His touch was impersonal and businesslike, and when he had loosened all the necessary fastenings, he turned his back once more. She took a deep, steadying breath, impatiently brushing away the remnants of her tears. Today was the beginning of a new phase of her life. For as long as she could remember, fear had been the guiding force in her life, seconded by a crushing sense of inadequacy that both her father and Delnamal had taken pains to reinforce.
But as of today, she was neither Prince Waldmir’s daughter nor King Delnamal’s wife. Today, she was a fierce woman warrior, who would do whatever was necessary to save her friend’s son from a fate he did not deserve. Last night, she had decided to risk her own life to save Corlin’s, and that meant she was stronger than anyone—even she herself—had known. She was still frightened, and expected she would be for the foreseeable future, but she was done with crying.
She pulled on the rough servant’s kirtle over the spelled stays, then shoved her silken court gown and petticoats into the empty satchel.
“I’m ready,” she said as she fastened a simple kerchief over her hair. Her blond locks were the weakest point of the disguise, marking her Nandel origins, but she would not be the only servant in the huge palace who had some Nandel blood in her, so they hoped no one would take any notice of her as they hurried through the halls.
With Falcor taking the lead—and still trying to make sure they encountered as few others as possible—the three of them took to the back ways once more to find the chevals Falcor had secreted for them in a grove of trees just off the road outside the palace.
No one looked closely enough at the pair of servants and the guardsman to notice the queen and the king’s nephew slipping away.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Jinnell smoothed her skirts nervously as the carriage slipped past the last few buildings of Aalwell proper. She had hoped to be alone in the carriage for the duration of the journey, but of course the king was too careful of her virtue to grant her such privacy, and she shared the carriage with a hawk-faced matron of the court who showed no interest in making conversation. Outside the carriage, the king and his honor guard rode their horses, thankfully slowing the pace of their procession, for the journey would have been over far too quickly if they’d all moved at the speed of chevals.
Jinnell’s plan to further slow their progress required some degree of privacy—if the king should ever guess what she was doing, he would…Well, she didn’t know just what he would do, but it was certain to be something dreadful. She wished her chaperone would fall asleep, but although the harridan never spoke except to scold, she remained ever vigilant, as if fearing Jinnell would debase herself with the nearest male if given the slightest opportunity. Jinnell momentarily wished she’d kept the ring her mother had given her, but she shook off that selfish thought. Corlin was
in greater danger than she and would need it more. She hoped he and Shelvon and Falcor were already a long way from the palace, moving at a far greater pace than Jinnell’s procession.
It wasn’t until noon, when the procession stopped for a brief luncheon, that Jinnell finally had a chance to implement the plan she had devised in the early morning hours of her long and sleepless night. The royal party all but took over a small inn—which, based on the amount of food that was prepared, had been expecting them. Nerves stole Jinnell’s appetite, but she forced herself to eat anyway.
It was a grim and quiet luncheon, and Jinnell experienced some small hint of satisfaction to see that while her uncle indulged his love of food and drank more than was strictly wise, he was in a surly and far from talkative mood. And he could barely stand to look at her, his eyes sliding quickly away from hers whenever their gazes accidentally met. He was well aware of the cruel fate to which he planned to subject her, and though he showed no signs of ceding to the dictates of his conscience, at least she had evidence that it troubled him.
When the uncomfortable meal was finished, Jinnell was allowed a visit to the privy, where she could for the first time all morning escape watchful eyes. With shaking hands, she lifted her skirts and removed a small pin she had concealed in one of the layers of underskirts. She slashed the pin over the skin of her calf, where no one could see the mark that was left. She reattached the pin to her skirts, just in case she might need it again, then removed the small vial of potion she had tucked into her pocket.
Never could she have guessed when she made her first attempt to replicate a healing potion that she would ever choose to make another just like it. With a grimace, she remembered the long night of misery that had followed the use of her Leel-free potion, but though she didn’t look forward to repeating the experience, she was determined to do what she could to aid her brother’s escape from Delnamal’s clutches.
Steeling herself as best she could, Jinnell activated the potion and downed it, then tucked the empty vial back into her pocket. Lifting her skirts once more, she watched anxiously for the little scratch to heal. She suspected it was not strictly necessary for her to wound herself before taking the potion, but she wanted to replicate the previous circumstances as closely as possible to make certain her plan worked. The scratch sealed itself up nicely.
Delnamal was seething with impatience by the time she emerged from the privy, the procession all mounted and ready to go. She was fully prepared to embarrass him with a description of women’s troubles if he dared to question what had taken so long, but he merely snapped at her to make haste. She climbed into the carriage as the first lick of nausea roiled her stomach.
They had barely made it past the outskirts of the small town when Jinnell shouted for the driver to stop the carriage. Her chaperone squawked at her manners, and the driver showed no inclination to follow her orders. The best Jinnell could manage was to stick her head out the carriage window and vomit out her lunch onto the road while Delnamal and his men watched in horror and revulsion.
At first, Delnamal insisted the procession carry on, dismissing Jinnell’s sickness as a sign of girlish nerves. The next hour was one of the most miserable in Jinnell’s memory. Someone brought her a slop pot so she didn’t have to stick her head out the window, but the stink that soon filled the carriage did not improve her nausea. Her traveling companion was beginning to look fairly green herself and was pressing her body against the far side of the carriage when Delnamal finally conceded that it was best they come to a halt.
Once again, their party found an inn to take over, although this one was not expecting them and was likely put out by their invasion. Delnamal muttered darkly over the inn where they’d eaten lunch, and Jinnell hoped he would not take out his wrath on that innkeeper.
“No one else seems to have taken ill,” she pointed out to him. “Perhaps you are right, and this is a result of nerves.” She moaned softly and closed her eyes as her stomach made an unbecoming burbling sound. “I’m sure I’ll be better in a few hours. Or by tomorrow morning at the latest.”
He still grumbled about it, but as far as she could tell he didn’t order the innkeeper’s arrest. “We will continue on our journey tomorrow morning, whether you feel up to it or not,” he told her.
Jinnell’s knees were too shaky to manage a curtsy, but she lowered her head demurely. “Yes, Your Majesty.”
Her stomach had long ago expelled all its contents, but that did not keep it from heaving regularly for the next several hours as she lay miserably on the bed in the inn. But because of her illness, her chaperone occasionally left her alone. In one of those brief windows of opportunity, Jinnell refilled her potion vial from the dregs of a goblet of wine and added the necessary elements to create another dose.
Her attempt to make herself unappealing to Prince Waldmir by losing her virginity had been foiled, but the disgusted and horrified way Delnamal and his men had regarded her while she was green with nausea had sparked a new idea. One that would be even more unpleasant to carry out. However, she could tolerate a couple of weeks of sickness if it would save her from a lifetime of marriage to a monster.
* * *
—
No one called the private meeting room at the town hall a “council chamber” in Alys’s hearing, but she had the distinct impression the term was being used behind her back. Just as she suspected that the people with whom she met every day were being called her “royal council.” It was Tynthanal’s doing, no doubt, as he continued to lay the groundwork for Women’s Well to declare its independence from Aaltah despite her insistence that she wasn’t yet ready.
She’d had an exciting—if disturbing—day at the Women’s Well Academy, where the former abigails worked side by side with her and several of Tynthanal’s most skilled magic practitioners developing new spells that could be produced nowhere but in this one strange border town that had once been a wasteland. Two spells that had previously failed in testing had finally been perfected, and she was glowing with the satisfaction of success when she entered the meeting room to find the people who were not her royal council waiting for her.
Alys noticed the somber mood of the room the moment she entered. Everyone rose—a habit she had finally given up grumbling about—but no one made eye contact, and there were no smiles of greeting. Standing directly to the right of her usual seat was Tynthanal, and she saw a parchment scroll clutched in his hand. His jaw was clenched, his eyes full of worry, and foreboding chased the last hints of triumph from her mind.
Alys made her way around the table toward her seat, not sure if she’d rather hurry to reach her destination and end the suspense or run from the room and remain in blissful ignorance. She was not, after all, a sovereign of any kind—no matter if she was treated like one—and there was no requirement that she face bad news immediately.
The room was eerily silent, and Alys tried to prepare herself for the worst as she took her seat, thereby giving everyone else silent permission to sit. Holding herself stiffly upright, she turned to Tynthanal and braced herself.
“What is it?”
“The king has sent Jinnell to Nandel.”
Alys’s lungs seized, and for a long moment it seemed as if even her heart had ceased to beat. She had, of course, been fully aware that this was what Delnamal was planning, but she’d been sure she had plenty of time to figure out how to…Well, she didn’t really know what exactly she’d been planning, except that it was to get both her children away from Delnamal.
“She’s only eighteen,” she said weakly when she could find her voice. “And she’s still in mourning for her grandfather.”
“She is apparently being sent merely to meet Prince Waldmir. There are no plans for a wedding as of yet, and that’s how the king has justified sending her while she’s still in mourning.”
It was a cold comfort at best, and with a shiver she realized tha
t Tynthanal had not relaxed after delivering the news. “There’s more, isn’t there?”
He nodded, the muscles in his jaw flexing as he glanced down at the parchment, which was tightly scrolled, as if it had been delivered by flier. “My informant in the palace tells me Corlin and Queen Shelvon have gone missing.”
A tiny sound of distress escaped Alys’s throat, and she clamped her hand over her mouth.
“It doesn’t seem they’ve been hurt,” Tynthanal hurried to assure her. “The king and his entourage escorted Jinnell to the Midlands border to formally place her in the care of a delegation from Nandel. There were some delays, and he was away from the palace for a day and a half. He returned to find Corlin and Shelvon hadn’t been seen since the morning he and Jinnell left, and one of Jinnell’s honor guardsmen is also missing. There was no sign of foul play.”
Alys let out a shaky breath and pulled together the shreds of her composure as her mind began processing what Tynthanal had just told her—and what it meant that he had told her in front of these leaders of Women’s Well whom she refused to call her council. “You think they’ve fled Aalwell together.”
Tynthanal nodded. “It’s what the king thinks, too. According to my source”—he raised the scroll—“treason charges are even now being leveled against all three of them, and he sees no reason to believe the council will not ratify those charges.”
That Delnamal would charge his wife and thirteen-year-old nephew with capital crimes was unsurprising. He had never made any pretense of caring for Shelvon, and he hated both Jinnell and Corlin simply because they were Alys’s children. Why should she hope he would show any family loyalty to them?