Mairah stared at the open vial of seer’s poison in her hand, willing herself to just down it and stop thinking about it. It was only a little stronger than the first poison she’d taken so many years ago, which meant it was highly unlikely to kill her and should also grant her a longer, clearer, more thorough vision. Her long-ago first attempt to trigger a vision had turned out to be well worth the misery—she doubted she would even have thought to try for the position of abbess had she not seen herself sitting behind the abbess’s desk—and yet so far she had not found the courage and will to take another. She remembered all too vividly the nausea and racking pain even the most mild poison had caused her, and everything in her body rebelled at the prospect of inflicting that on herself once more.
“It’s worth a quarter hour of misery for a lifetime of comfort,” she exhorted herself out loud. She had set her abigails to the tedious and almost certainly futile task of researching possible paths toward a cure for the Curse, but she could not entrust her future to such a flimsy hope. She needed something more, and triggering a vision seemed the most logical next step.
She raised the vial to her lips, smelling the acrid scent of the poison, which overwhelmed the alcohol in the base liquid. Even that scent provoked a visceral memory, one that made her stomach turn over and her throat close in protest.
What were the chances that the vision she triggered would show her the way to reverse the Curse?
Mairah snorted softly. Common sense told her that reversing the Curse was something well beyond her abilities. To be sure, she was magically gifted—more so than any other woman within the walls of the Abbey—but for all her ability to see a multitude of elements, she had never truly applied herself to the study of magic. What was the point, when her abilities only made her sisters more jealous and spiteful? She’d been studying and practicing since she’d become abbess, but six months was far from enough time to develop the expertise she needed, no matter how talented she might be.
Mairah lowered the vial of poison once more, though she didn’t immediately put the stopper back in it. Her instincts told her a vision could not set her on the path toward reversing the Curse, but was it possible a vision would show her how to create the illusion that she was on the right path?
For what felt like the twentieth time, she raised the vial to her lips but could not force herself to drink.
If her goal was to create an illusion only, did she really need to put herself through the agony of a seer’s poison? If she abandoned any thought of genuinely trying to undo the Curse and poured all her imagination and creativity into that illusion, surely she could come up with something that did not require her to suffer so.
Slowly, she lowered the vial once more, and this time, she shoved the cork back in, shuddering at the thought of her close call. There was no reason whatsoever for her to drink a seer’s poison! All she had to do was claim she’d taken one and seen a vision that hinted at future success. A smile spread upon her lips as a plan began to take shape.
All but one of the seers in the Abbey of Khalpar were among Norah’s circle of friends. Mairah could demonstrate “progress” on her mission and punish her enemies at the same time.
Happily working out the details of the vision she would claim to have received, Mairah opened the vial once more and poured the contents into the chamber pot, sighing with relief.
Jalzarnin relaxed when he’d finished delivering his progress report to the king and the rest of the royal council. He’d half expected the king to begin demanding unreasonable progress in the effort to reverse the Curse, and he’d come prepared with a list of arguments and explanations for why it was too soon to expect results. It was Jalzarnin’s opinion that the king had been having fewer good days than usual lately, his always erratic temper alarmingly easy to ignite. But the king had accepted his report without demur or complaint, and his demeanor seemed gratifyingly cheerful for once. Until it was the marshal’s turn to report.
The marshal was the most junior member of the royal council, and one of the lowest ranking. He was responsible for all law enforcement throughout Khalpar, and even before he began speaking, he seemed ill at ease. Which did not bode well for his report, though Jalzarnin still hoped the king’s good humor would hold up to some unpleasant news.
“We have reason to believe that the Mother of All heresy has been active in Khalwell as of late,” the marshal said.
It was all Jalzarnin could do not to wince. As the lord high priest, he himself should have been the most scandalized of all the council members to learn that this heresy had cropped up yet again, but though he found it distasteful, in his heart of hearts he did not see how it mattered if a few misguided people got together and made up silly stories about the relationship between the Creator and the Mother. Certainly mankind gave the Creator more serious and troubling reasons to be peevish with them. Of course, the lord high priest could not afford to express any such sentiment, so he forced himself to scowl.
King Khalvin’s eyes narrowed and his lips thinned, his scowl entirely unforced as he fixed the marshal with a steely stare. Jalzarnin doubted there was a man in the room who did not instantly see that the king’s mood had plummeted with the mention of the cult that he seemed to regard as a personal affront.
“What reason might that be?” the king asked, each word articulated carefully.
The marshal swallowed and shifted in his seat, and Jalzarnin was glad not to be on the receiving end of that fearsome stare.
“The Watch found an old woman plastering tracts on doorways late at night. Disgusting filth that has no place anywhere in our fair city.”
The king’s lip curled in distaste. “I presume she is being questioned so that her fellow cultists can be dealt with? After all, there is no such thing as a single heretic.”
The marshal’s gaze dropped to the table, and his shoulders tightened. “No, Your Majesty,” he said. His voice didn’t quaver, but it was so soft and breathy there was no missing his fear. No one liked to give the king bad news, but the marshal was proving unbecomingly timid for a man charged with upholding the law. “As I said, she was an old woman. It appears her heart gave out at the terror of having been arrested.”
All trace of good humor had vanished from the king’s expression, and Jalzarnin bid a sad adieu to this rare good day, for he did not see the king’s mood improving from here.
“She just happened to drop dead?” the king asked with a snarl. “What a happy convenience for her fellow heretics. Tell me, do you think it might be possible her sudden death was something other than an accident?”
The marshal glanced around the room, perhaps hoping another council member would intervene on his behalf. But of course no one was inclined to do any such thing. When the king was in this foul a temper, everyone hoped to escape his notice.
“There is no evidence to suggest—” the marshal started, but the king immediately cut him off.
“Did she by any chance open her Mindseye when she saw what was about to happen? And did she perhaps activate some spell that might have made her incapable of informing on her accomplices?”
The marshal licked his lips, once again glancing around in hopes of rescue. No one would so much as look in his direction, much less meet his eyes.
“I do believe that was the case,” he reluctantly admitted. “The men had no reason to see an old woman as a threat, so—”
“So no one considered that a woman about to be arrested for distributing heretical tracts might take some action to avoid being questioned?” the king asked, his voice rising. “What kind of training are your men receiving that they are incapable of reaching this logical conclusion and taking care to capture the woman alive? I would know to watch for suicide, and I’ve not spent a day on Watch duty! Are these men imbeciles?”
The marshal’s face had lost all color, and though he opened and closed his mouth a few times, he seemed incapable of speech, maybe even of thought. Jalzarnin suspected that by tomorrow morning’s council meeting, there would be a new marshal sitting in that seat. Most kings and sovereign princes made at least a token effort to maintain a consistent royal council, but Khalvin had made it abundantly clear that no member of his council was irreplaceable. He’d once confided in Jalzarnin that he felt it best not to allow his council members to become complacent, but Jalzarnin hardly felt the rampant paranoia his purges inspired was an improvement.
“It appears inquiries will have to be made,” Jalzarnin said, taking pity on the marshal despite the man’s obvious unsuitability for his position. “I will instruct my priests to keep a careful watch on their flocks. A few artfully placed questions to the right people will help us track down the root of this heresy.”
The king glared at the marshal for a long moment before finally turning his attention to Jalzarnin. “It is the duty of the priesthood to ensure the piety of the people of Khalpar,” he said. “I am disappointed to find there has been a resurgence of this cult right under your nose.”
Yes, the king was now thoroughly sunk in one of his most disagreeable moods, but there was nothing to be done for it. Jalzarnin wished he’d known what the marshal was going to report before the meeting began—he could have counseled the man to let him handle the issue without troubling the king. It wouldn’t have been the first time during his tenure as lord high priest that he had kept rumors of heresy from reaching the king’s ears.
“My deepest apologies, Your Majesty,” Jalzarnin said, and for the most part, he actually meant it. “I have clearly been lax in my duties, but I promise you—”
“Perhaps you are being distracted by the amount of time you spend at the Abbey,” the king interrupted. “Surely the abigails do not require your services in their efforts to reverse the Curse.”
“No, Your Majesty.” Jalzarnin stifled a sigh. He had enjoyed having the freedom to visit the Abbey under the guise of gathering “progress reports” instead of having to slink in through the married-man’s entrance under cover of night. But he’d never expected that luxury to last.
“Then I see no reason why you should still be visiting the Abbey with any regularity. Your time is better spent seeing to the moral fiber of our kingdom, don’t you agree?”
“Of course, Your Majesty,” Jalzarnin agreed, hoping his face did not flush an angry—and embarrassed—red. It was just like the king to suddenly blame Jalzarnin for some great uprise in heresy just because the marshal had reported catching a single heretic in the act. And if heresy was, in fact, on the rise, it was of even greater importance that Jalzarnin gather whatever intelligence he could on Lord Thanstal and any other potential rivals who might think to win their way to the office of lord high priest. He hoped Mairah’s abigail was still coaxing Thanstal to talk, and that the man would reveal something sufficiently damning.
“I will need to speak with the abbess on occasion to monitor any progress she and her abigails have made toward reversing the Curse,” he continued, “but rest assured that I will focus all of my energies on rooting out the heretics.”
The king nodded briskly, although his expression remained sour and unyielding. He was far from appeased, and every man at the table would have to watch his every word and gesture for the rest of the meeting.
Kailindar Rai-Chantah was Ellin’s uncle, and so it was not considered extraordinary or unexpected for him to pay a visit to her in the residential wing of the palace rather than arrange a more formal meeting during the day. However, he had never before done so; she was fairly certain he had not fully forgiven her for stripping him of one of his titles during her early days as queen. He was cordial enough with her, and had supported her during her confrontation with her cousin Tamzin—more because of his hatred for Tamzin than any deep affection for her—but she was under no illusion that he was one of her most ardent supporters. He’d made that abundantly clear when he’d cornered her shortly after she’d dismissed Lord Creethan from the council to tell her how childish and unnecessary that decision had been.
By nature a dour and taciturn man, he was not especially well liked by the other members of Ellin’s council—which was fortuitous, as with Tamzin now dead, Kailindar would have ascended to the throne if Ellin weren’t already sitting on it. His lack of popularity meant that he had little hope of convincing the people to rise up in his name—but that was true only so long as she maintained her own popular support. He might be calling under the guise of a social visit, but he wasn’t fooling anyone.
She waited until a servant had poured wine for both of them and departed. Then she turned to Kailindar with some amount of trepidation.
“To what do I owe the pleasure of this unexpected visit, Uncle?” she asked. She was depressingly certain he would not have called on her for an idle or pleasant conversation.
Kailindar took a sip of his wine before answering. His hair had gone gray at least a decade ago, and he insisted on wearing a droopy mustache that made him look even more dour than he was. He had to drink carefully to avoid dipping his mustache in the wine.
“As you know,” he said, frowning down at the wine instead of looking at her, “I have made the first overtures to Prince Waldmir about your potential marriage to Zarsha.”
Ellin took a sip of her own wine, though she didn’t especially want it. Her reign and her continued support—half-hearted though it might be—from her council all rested on her ability to secure the trade agreements with Nandel. She had hoped the negotiations would go quickly and smoothly—as if anything ever did!—but Kailindar would not be here if that were the case.
“There is a problem?” she asked, wondering if she’d made a mistake in accepting Zarsha’s assurances.
“There’s something,” Kailindar hedged, frowning even more deeply. “I’ve received several messages from him via flier, and for a man who likes to present himself as blunt and plainspoken—and whom everyone considers little better than a barbarian warlord—he can be maddeningly cagey. He seems to be implying that Zarsha is not a suitable husband for a queen—either that, or that he desperately needs Zarsha to return to Nandel so that he can continue to fulfill his obligations to the Crown.”
Ellin let out a short bark of laughter. “He desperately needs Zarsha at home, and yet when our original engagement fell through, he assigned him indefinitely as a ‘special envoy’ to Rhozinolm?”
Kailindar crossed his legs and took another careful sip of his wine. “He’s not making much of an effort to be convincing,” he agreed. “Everything he’s said has been through implication, rather than outright accusation, but what was quite obvious to me is that Prince Waldmir does not hold his dear nephew in high regard.”
A feeling that was clearly mutual—and understandable, if Zarsha was blackmailing him, or at least threatening to. She wished Zarsha would be more forthcoming about whatever the issue was between them. Zarsha had seemed to believe Prince Waldmir would be agreeable to the match despite the bad blood, and she didn’t know if that was misplaced optimism, or a form of subterfuge.
“It is possible Waldmir is merely trying to extort the best possible deal out of us,” Kailindar continued. “He presented it as a given that if the marriage were to happen, our trade agreements would be renewed on their current terms, but he also suggested your close alliance with Princess Alysoon—and your necessarily strained relationship with King Delnamal—might make the renewal of those agreements problematic for him.”
“In other words, you think he’s throwing up every objection he can imagine in hopes that we’ll somehow sweeten the deal—even though nothing we’ve offered before, short of my marriage to Zarsha, has been enough to tempt him to renew the agreements.”
“I think it’s more than that. I think Waldmir genuinely despises Zarsha and does not want to see him come into a position of power. It is hard for a man like him to envision any woman, much less one as young as you, sitting on the throne and making her own decisions. He considers that Zarsha would be the true power behind the throne—which ordinarily would be an inducement to make the agreement—and he does not want that. I also think Waldmir has heard of your exclusive agreements with Women’s Well and is more than a little uncomfortable with them. You know how Nandelites are about women’s magic.”
“I know how Nandelites are about women in general,” she muttered, shaking her head. Most of the world regarded women’s magic as something unclean, only to be practiced by women who’d been shamed and ruined and sent to the Abbey of the Unwanted. In Nandel, even the women of the Abbey were forbidden to practice magic. And respectable women were considered property of their husbands or fathers and had few rights under the law.
“Yes,” Kailindar agreed. “We are unfortunately not coming into these negotiations from a position of strength. Not only do we have a woman on the throne, but we’ve allied ourselves with another female-led principality. A rogue principality, in Waldmir’s view. Now we propose to make his despised nephew the power behind our throne—again, in his view.”
Ellin wasn’t sure if she was imagining enemies where none existed, but she could have sworn she heard a faint undertone of threat in Kailindar’s voice. A hint that possibly the negotiations would be easier if she stepped aside and let a man take the throne? She narrowed her eyes at him, but saw no hint of Tamzin’s cunning or ambition in his expression. That didn’t mean they weren’t there, however; it might just mean he was better at hiding them.
“Have you by any chance mentioned my dismissal of Lord Creethan in your discussions?” Ellin asked, letting the faintest hint of an edge enter her voice. If Kailindar was angry enough about that “childish” decision, would he use it to undermine the marriage negotiations? She was certain Waldmir would take the dimmest possible view of her decision to punish a member of her royal council in defense of the Unwanted Women of Rhozinolm.
Kailindar’s eyes narrowed in annoyance. “Of course not. I’m sure he’s heard of it by now—as I warned you, it has created quite the sensation—and I doubt it has made him any more favorably inclined toward you, but I’m not foolish enough to rub his face in it.”
“What do you suggest I do, Uncle?” she asked, for it was a rare man who did not relish being asked for his sage advice.
Kailindar steepled his fingers, looking lost in thought. “First, I would suggest you persuade Zarsha to tell you what the issue is between him and Waldmir. We have always assumed you would be an even more attractive match now that you are queen, but if Waldmir hates Zarsha enough, it’s possible that your marriage is no longer the key to renewing the agreements after all. I myself would have done anything to keep Tamzin from gaining the power of the throne, and if Waldmir feels the same way about Zarsha…”
Ellin opened her mouth to remind him that Zarsha was not going to gain the power of the throne, but of course reality wasn’t the issue. Waldmir assumed Zarsha would have the true power if they married, and that perception might ruin everything.
When she’d finally gotten over her childish dislike of Zarsha, Ellin had found that he was kindhearted and true, with a whip-smart mind that had more than once helped her out of an impossible situation. There was far more to him than his charm and good looks—though he had those in generous quantities—and sometimes when he touched her, she felt a stirring of attraction she’d feared she’d never feel again when the man she’d loved had betrayed her.
It was hard to know her own mind when her thoughts and feelings were aswirl, but she was fairly certain that she now actually wanted to marry Zarsha. She did not feel for him the fiery passion she had felt for Graesan, did not long for him with that same kind of aching need. But Graesan had betrayed her, and marriage to Zarsha would be far more pleasant than the vast majority of diplomatic marriages.
Yet under all that, there was another reason Zarsha was an ideal husband: he was a foreigner, and therefore there would never be any pressure for her to cede her throne to him once they were married. Such was not the case for any other likely prospects, and though she had succeeded to the throne with the idea that her reign would last a year or two at most, she found she was now disinclined to step down in favor of her future husband—whoever he might be.
Kailindar shifted in his chair, drawing her attention once more. “If Waldmir’s reluctance to sanction this marriage turns out to be real, and not just another negotiating tactic, you will be forced to make some very difficult decisions. If, for example, Waldmir’s true objection is to your close ties with Princess Alysoon, I hope you will think only of the good of Rhozinolm when you consider which of our trade agreements is the most vital.”
“In other words, if it comes down to a choice between having trade with Women’s Well and trade with Nandel, I must choose Nandel.”
He nodded.
“And if it turns out Waldmir cannot countenance having Zarsha so close to my throne?” She gave him her most challenging glare, daring him to put his implications into words. Kailindar might not be popular, but at least he was male. If she could not restore the trade agreements with Nandel by making Zarsha her prince consort—and no one came up with another inducement that would work—then if he decided to challenge the legitimacy of her rule, he might very well win.
“I don’t lust for the throne, Your Majesty,” he said, holding up his hands in a gesture of innocence. He looked and sounded sincere enough, but trust was a luxury she could not afford.
“Are you certain, Uncle?” she asked in a dangerous undertone, and had the momentary satisfaction of seeing a look of unease cross his face.
“I want what is best for Rhozinolm,” he said. “Even if I did lust for the throne, I’m not the sort of man who would endanger our kingdom to take it.”
“So the council was wrong to think you’d go to war with Tamzin if they put him on the throne?”
“You are not Tamzin. I would argue that a war would have been the lesser evil than having him on the throne. And may I remind you that I eat one of those damned seed cakes at the start of every council meeting. If you think I’m a threat…” He lifted his shoulders in a gesture that was meant to look nonchalant.
Ellin was sure he knew as well as she that she couldn’t afford to cold-bloodedly murder any more of her advisers. If Tamzin hadn’t been in the act of committing treason when she’d killed him, she’d have ended up in a dungeon, queen or not. The ring she wore and the seed cakes her council members ate were nothing more than a ceremonial reminder, and she did not believe for a moment that they would prevent her uncle from making trouble if he so chose. Which meant that perhaps a different tactic was in order.
She needed to make certain he was fully committed both to arranging her marriage to Zarsha and to continuing to trade with Women’s Well, and she suspected she knew just the lever to use.
“How is Kailee?” she asked. “I believe she has a birthday coming up?”
Kailindar stiffened and paled at the mention of his daughter by his first wife. The poor girl had been blind since birth, and though he’d consulted with the abbess of every abbey throughout Seven Wells, no one had been able to reverse the girl’s condition. Some men would have sent the child to the Abbey as soon as the blindness was deemed incurable, and the older Kailee grew, the more polite society murmured. Worse even than the blindness itself was the appearance of her milky eyes. In an old woman, the milkiness would be dismissed as cataracts. But in a woman Kailee’s age, the first impression was that her Mindseye was shockingly open. Even with her beauty and her impeccable pedigree, she was considered unmarriageable. And there was only one place an unmarriageable girl was meant to live.
Kailindar looked so stricken that Ellin instantly regretted the impulse to mention his daughter directly after having questioned his loyalty. He clearly doted on the girl, and how could he not take her question as a threat under the circumstances? A fact of which she’d been well aware before she’d spoken. She’d let her suspicions get the best of her and been needlessly cruel.
“Forgive me, Uncle,” she said, refusing to lie by claiming innocence. “I wish no ill upon your daughter.”
“But you can command me to send her to the Abbey, and you wanted to remind me of that fact. I was actually pleasantly surprised you did not bring that up when I opposed your decision to dismiss Lord Creethan. It seems I gave you too much credit.” His voice was cold and bitter, and he would not meet her eyes.
The words stung, and Ellin cursed herself for mismanaging the conversation. He might have bristled and heard a threat no matter how she’d broached the subject, but she’d done so in a way guaranteed to make him shut down when what she needed was for him to open up.
“I would never command you to send her to the Abbey,” she insisted. “You have my word on that. Kailee is sweet and kind and deserves all the love you can give her.”
Kailindar was clearly unconvinced. “You wouldn’t be the first person to suggest I should have sent her to the Abbey by now.”
“Perhaps not, but you won’t hear it from me.” Even with the improvements she had forced down the Abbey’s throat, it was little better than a prison, though its inhabitants were guilty of no crime. “I was rather thinking that perhaps I could help you find a husband for her.”
Kailindar shook his head. “I will not have her married by royal decree.”
Ellin sighed quietly. While she could technically command one of her subjects to marry Kailee, she was well aware that doing so would do the girl no favors. “That isn’t what I meant.” It was far too likely that any man forced to marry her would swiftly divorce her and send her to the Abbey, and while the sovereign had the right to order her subjects to marry, she did not have the right to forbid them to divorce. “I merely wanted to ask if you would mind if I made some inquiries on her behalf.” In truth, she already had someone in mind, but she was not yet ready to show her hand.
Kailindar stared at her in silence for a moment, no doubt trying to guess her intent. That he was still hearing a hint of threat in her offer seemed clear. “I can’t imagine there is a man who would have her to whom I’d be willing to entrust her,” he said carefully. “But I have no objection to you trying.”
She nodded briskly. “Very well then. I will see what I can do. You have my word that I will neither order you to send her to the Abbey nor order her marriage if you and she are not agreeable to the match.”
His gaze was still wary as he met her eyes. “And I give you my word that I will always do what is best for Rhozinolm. It would never even occur to me to sabotage the negotiations with Prince Waldmir merely because I disagreed with one of your decisions. I hope you believe that.”
“I do,” she said with somewhat more assurance than she felt. It was hard to shake the feeling that he might be waiting in the wings, secretly hoping for her to fail so he could usurp the throne for himself. But perhaps that was merely an insidious side effect to Tamzin’s scheming. Perhaps her cousin’s greed for the throne had tainted her view so much she could not trust her own instincts.