CHAPTER SIX

Even the matriarchs could not claim perfection, so for us to do so would sully their memory. A seeker was needed, and Ayal was chosen. As hero, as offering, as gift, as sacrifice. She would journey to remind the people of the land that the past should not be repeated, and to join the branches of the tree into one, sturdy trunk. A firm foundation that would not fail.

Not again.

—THE AYALYA

Jasminda ul-Sarifor could still smell the smoke in her hair. She’d scrubbed herself raw after finally returning to the palace from the madness of the aftermath of the temple explosion, but the acrid tang of smoke and bitter palmsalt clung to her nostrils. Perhaps the scent no longer permeated her skin or clothes and was only in her mind.

She wound down the hallways, barely noticing the passersby who stopped and bowed or curtsied at her with murmurs of “Your Majesty.” Ever so slowly, she was getting used to the idea of being the queen of Elsira. Though if she stopped too long to think about it, raw terror still seized her as the consequences of her failure played out in her mind.

No. Failure is not a possibility. She squeezed her hands into fists, crushing the piece of paper clutched in one of them. Holding on to her anger kept her mind clear. Rage burned at whoever had set the bomb that had destroyed so many lives and forever scarred their land. And a bitter resentment bubbled over the sender of the note slowly turning to pulp in her grip.

Her mama would have been disappointed in her. She was the most even-tempered person Jasminda had ever known. Even Papa had not been prone to rages, so it was a mystery as to where she and her brother Roshon had gotten such fiery tempers. Her other brother, Varten, had taken after their parents—sweet and even-keeled.

Eyes still sore from exposure to the fire stung as the loss of her entire family slammed into her like a wall. There were days when the grief was barely a whisper on her skin, and others, like today, when it threatened to immobilize her. Fury closely chased its heels. She had to overcome the desire to punch something, and she absolutely could not cry. Especially not here in the palace hallways. It was unladylike, and certainly unbefitting a queen.

She paused to gather herself, closing her eyes and breathing deeply. One task at a time. She counted to ten and back down to one, willing calm to infuse her bones.

When she opened her eyes again, a butler was headed her way, concern painted on his face.

“I’m all right, Renard,” she said, waving him off. “Thank you.”

He bowed and stepped aside, still watching her warily. Jasminda forced a smile—a brittle, crackling thing—to hopefully relieve his alarm as she continued on her way to Jack’s office. When she arrived, she nodded at the secretary seated in the outer chamber before heading in.

King Jaqros Alliaseen stood when she entered. He looked as dashing as ever, if quite rumpled with his shirttails having escaped his trousers and his hair sticking up in all directions. The tight knot inside her loosened at the sight of him and her lungs were able to fill completely.

That morning, he’d raced to the temple once he’d discovered she was there and attached himself to her side. The worshippers had long been cleared out and the building sundered to rubble; investigators from the Intelligence Service were poring over the ruins, collecting evidence. Jack had refused to let her go, giving orders and answering questions with Jasminda nestled firmly in the circle of his arms.

He’d needed to reassure himself that she was all right. And she’d needed the comfort. But his face as he regarded her now seemed leaner somehow. Deep shadows hollowed his eyes. The stress of the day was taking its toll. Jack had not bothered to rest or change his clothing since returning. He’d poured himself into his duties—probably to stave off panic.

Only after she’d crossed the threshold and was halfway into the office did she notice the second man standing in the room. He was an imposing man of middle years with a great walrus mustache overtaking his face.

“Director Dillot,” she said, inclining her head toward him in the way she’d been advised was queenly.

Luqos Dillot, Director of the Intelligence Service, bowed deeply. “Your Majesty,” he said in a rumbling baritone. “I was just advising His Majesty of the latest development in the investigation.”

“What development?” Jasminda asked, sitting next to Jack on the settee. Dillot settled back into the armchair across from them.

“A group called the Hand of the Reaper has taken responsibility for the temple bombing. They’ve sent these letters to the major newspapers, demanding they be printed.” He handed over a single typed page. Just three paragraphs of text that sickened Jasminda’s stomach.

“Who is this group?” she asked.

“A secret society that has operated in the shadows, meddling with our culture and government for decades,” Dillot said flatly.

Jack rubbed his forehead. “The group is said to have been started one hundred and fifty years ago by Prince Niqolas.”

“The same Prince Regent who was beheaded in a coup?” Jasminda asked.

“The very same.” Jack’s voice was grim. “Niqolas had a strong distrust of foreigners.”

“As would anyone kidnapped as a child and forced to live among the savages of Raun, Your Majesty.”

“The Raunians weren’t responsible for kidnapping him, Director,” Jack replied. “The True Father hired mercenaries to do that. In fact, it was Raunians who saved his life and returned him to his home, did they not?”

Dillot nodded his assent, but still wore a sour expression.

“At any rate,” Jack said, “the experience left Prince Niqolas with quite the jingoistic streak. At some point before his brother led the coup to depose him, he created the secret society with others sympathetic to his cause.”

“For what purpose?” Jasminda asked.

“They’re nationalists first and foremost,” Jack replied. “It’s said they’re responsible for coining the phrase ‘Elsira for Elsirans.’ In the beginning, they worked to control public opinion and promote the idea that a war with Yaly was necessary.”

“Just because Niqolas hated foreigners?”

“He hated the Lagrimari specifically for orchestrating his kidnapping. He thought that he could go through Yaly to attack Lagrimar from its eastern border. No one was ever certain that the Mantle stretched that far since those mountains are impassable. But apparently, Prince Niqolas believed it was nothing a few tons of dynamite couldn’t solve.”

Jasminda’s brows rose.

“Luckily for Elsira,” Jack continued, “the army’s High Commander was not as malleable as the populace. After the coup and Niqolas’s death, the Reapers were quiet for a time, but reemerged to oppose the plans for a national railway.”

“They’re the reason we have no railroad?”

Dillot spoke up. “There was always opposition to the idea of blighting our country with great steam-pumping iron beasts. Farmers would lose valuable land, and the whole thing would be an eyesore.”

Jasminda shook her head in disbelief. “A railroad track takes no more space than a road. And think of the convenience.”

“Most Elsirans do not agree with you, Your Majesty.” Dillot appeared to be one of them.

“Likely because there was a sustained campaign to poison the people against it,” Jack replied. “Every form of popular media seemed to coalesce to oppose a railway: newspaper articles and editorials, plays were written parodying the idea, music halls were filled with songs deriding it. I once came across an old math textbook with an equation about how many acres of land would be ruined by the construction of a train station. There was a concerted, directed assault and those who care to study such things point to the Hand of the Reaper as its source.”

“So because the trains and engines would have to be manufactured outside of Elsira, the group contested it?” Jasminda asked.

Elsira was an insular country that was being dragged into the technological age kicking and screaming. They’d adopted some modern conveniences such as electricity, automobiles, and telephones, but every time a railroad was proposed, or an airship field, or any number of other updates, the plans were vehemently opposed. Compared to some of their neighbors, Elsirans lived in the dark ages.

Jack shrugged. “Foreign tycoons have never been well thought of here. Had the steam engine been an Elsiran invention, we likely would have railway tracks crisscrossing the country. We’re quite lucky that an Elsiran devised his own automobile design.”

“No one knows who they are, and how they accomplish such things?” Jasminda asked.

“They are cloaked in secrecy,” Dillot responded. “We believe the group is headed by five members and the bulk of their work is carried out by independent cells.”

“Perhaps without knowledge of the other cells or even who they’re working for,” Jack added. He looked like he was going to say more, but then thought better of it.

“And are they known to be violent?” Jasminda said, her voice lowering.

Dillot fidgeted with the folder in his hands. “Not that we know. But again, their activities are by and large hidden. There have been theories about their accountability for various unexplained deaths over the years, but they have never before taken responsibility for an event such as this.”

Jasminda regarded the letter she held, reading over the hateful words again. “They say there will be another attack,” she whispered.

Jack nodded. “If we don’t do what they ask.”

A knock at the door forestalled further conversation and Jack’s secretary entered. “Your package has arrived, Your Majesty.”

“Thank you, Netta.” He rose quickly, his expression inscrutable. “Keep me apprised, Dillot. When the evening papers hit the stands with this letter printed, we need to be prepared for the fallout.”

Dillot rose. “Yes, Your Majesty. Quite right.” He seemed flustered at being dismissed so quickly. However, with another bow, he was gone.

Jasminda turned to her fiancé. “Should we stop the papers from printing it?”

“The people will find out anyway. These things tend to spread.”

She dropped the page onto the coffee table and the other crumpled paper in her hand fell as well. She’d forgotten she was holding it.

“What’s that?” Jack said, moving to grasp it.

“Lizvette has sent you another message.”

Jack froze midreach. “I promise you I don’t know why. We’ve both made it very clear—”

“I’ll handle it. I just wanted you to know.” Her previous irritation at Lizvette’s persistent attempts to communicate with Jack had vanished for the moment, replaced by a sad emptiness in her belly. Another attack was in the works—when would it end?

Jack ran his hand through his already disheveled hair, which was longer than usual. He’d been scheduled for a haircut that morning.

“Do you think we should postpone the wedding?” she asked.

Shocked eyes regarded her as the bookcase in the corner of the room slid open. Jasminda tensed, but Jack placed his arm around her, pulling her closer.

“It’s just Benn,” he said. “And no, of course not. The wedding goes on as planned.” He gave her a squeeze and then rose as Lt. Benn Ravel stepped into the room from the hidden entrance to the office.

Jack’s friend and former assistant brushed off the dust that clung to his black uniform as the secret door slid closed. “Your Majesties,” he said with a bow.

“Benn.” Jack motioned him forward. “Thank you for coming. Sorry about the subterfuge, those passages weren’t too narrow for you?”

Benn was quite a bit stockier than Jack’s lean form. The tiny secret hallways that ran through the palace would have been a challenge. His expression was sardonic. “I may develop claustrophobia after that experience, sir.”

Jack chuckled and the men sat.

Benn had recently transferred from the army to the Royal Guardsmen, but as far as Jasminda knew, he hadn’t been assigned any sort of traditional guard duty. He was, however, one of the few people Jack trusted implicitly, and though she didn’t know him well, that was enough for her.

They briefed Benn on the Hand of the Reaper and showed him the letter.

“This reads like a manifesto. They want Elsira for Elsirans and”—he peered more closely—“they’re calling for a separate state to be established for the Lagrimari?” His perplexed expression was almost comical. “I’d thought that was Lagrimar?”

Jasminda laughed bitterly. “Keep reading.”

Benn scanned the page. “‘We acknowledge that the country of Lagrimar is untenable and humbly suggest the less populated land in the north of Elsira as the location for a new Lagrimari state. Our only mandate is that it be separate and independent so as not to sully the purity of Elsira.’ Hmm.” He grabbed his chin, rubbing at the stubble there.

Beside her, Jack was stiff. “There have been other calls for a separate state. If I had to guess, I’d say the Reapers have been sewing the seeds of this idea ever since the Mantle fell.”

Benn shook his head. “That’s ludicrous. Split the country in two just so they don’t have to deal with the refugees and make them citizens? But what about the Goddess? She’s the one who called for a united land for Elsirans and Lagrimari. What does She have to say about this?”

Jasminda thought of Oola standing on the platform at the temple moments before the bombing, always so mysterious and close-lipped. “The Goddess has always been clear. We were one people once and She wants it to be that way again. A two-country solution is not on the table.”

“But She has not weighed in on this demand,” Jack said. “And She has steadfastly avoided providing counsel to us on any matter at all. Each request for advice on decisions from small to large have been denied.” His voice was acerbic. The Goddess’s abdication of rule had been maddeningly complete. Her past weeks had been spent either at the temples or entirely absent, unable to be located by anyone.

Jack tapped a rhythm out on the arm of the settee. “The Council will no doubt want to consider all possibilities.”

Jasminda blinked rapidly, not believing her ears.

“I’m not saying that it’s a good idea, but as rulers we need to weigh every option.” His voice was conciliatory, but Jasminda couldn’t shake the dread overtaking her.

“You would consider bending to the will of terrorists?”

Jack clenched his jaw. “It’s not just the terrorists calling for two countries.”

“Yes, it’s the worst of the Elsirans. The nationalistic, small-minded people who think there’s such a thing as Elsiran purity. The ones being manipulated by an insidious cancer that’s already claimed dozens of lives this morning alone.” Her voice rose with each declaration.

Jack stared at her, eyes wide. So her anger hadn’t left after all. She turned to face Benn, who looked uncomfortable witnessing the disagreement between the two leaders.

She and Jack would discuss this later. “So why did you force poor Benn here to brave the dusty secret passages?”

Jack took a deep breath. She could feel his gaze lingering on her but couldn’t look at him right now. His voice was low and measured. “Do you think the Hand of the Reaper could be responsible for my brother’s death?”

Jasminda startled. Weeks ago, Benn had come to Jack to confide that his wife Ella believed Prince Alariq had been murdered. Her only proof lay in the memories of her dead sister, memories she’d been able to access via a magical spell. Benn hadn’t thought Jack would believe him. Little did the man know that the new king and queen were very well acquainted with magical memory spells.

Alariq had died in an airship accident—or so the nation believed. The idea that it had been murder had shaken Jack to the core. Ella believed that Syllenne Nidos, High Priestess of the Sisterhood, along with a mysterious man from Yaly were responsible for the killing.

Jasminda chanced a glance at Jack; his face was troubled. “The letter mentions further attacks, but also hints at past ones,” he said.

Understanding dawned. “If Alariq was murdered,” she said, “then it stands to reason it couldn’t have happened without at least the knowledge of the Reapers, if not their approval.”

“We have to assume they have their hands in everything,” Jack said, voice tight.

Benn stared at the ground, considering. “Ella is sure a Yalyishman was the one who approached Syllenne with the plot. If this Reaper group hates foreigners, then wouldn’t it be unlikely for them to have worked together or even approved of an assassination?” He shook his head. “It doesn’t track.”

“The truth is we have no idea of the identities of the Hand of the Reaper or anyone they may be working with or what they’re truly capable of,” Jack said. “I asked you to come in secret because, with the exception of Usher and Darvyn, the people I trust completely are those in this room. And I’d prefer to keep you as anonymous as possible to prohibit any reprisals. We have to assume that every institution from the Council to the constabulary is compromised.”

Benn nodded grimly. “I understand, sir. What do you want me to do?”

“I’d like you to lead your own investigation into this. You can move around to places we can’t and you have connections we don’t. And your wife has proved very resourceful.”

“That’s one way of putting it,” he chuckled.

“There will be another attack. We believe that the Reapers use independent cells. If we can find the people actually responsible for the bombing, that will get us closer to being able to stop another tragedy.”

Benn looked somewhat pale.

Jasminda was still upset at Jack’s willingness to even consider two countries. But her admiration and appreciation for the speed of his mind was greater than ever. She leaned forward. “It’s a big task, Benn, but I agree with Jack. There’s no one else we’d entrust it with.”

“It’s one I’m happy to do, Your Majesty. I just hope that I’m up to it. I promise I’ll do my best.”

She smiled. “I don’t believe any of us feel up to the roles we’ve been assigned. I certainly don’t. Your best is all we’d ever ask.”

Benn took a deep breath, which seemed to re-inflate his resolve.

“Thank you, Benn,” Jack said. “These times will sorely test us all.”

Jasminda felt that truth deep in her bones. As she sat back against the cushion, the smell of smoke wafted up from her hair. She wondered if it would ever leave.