The Mistress of Serpents came upon a man sleeping by the riverside. In slumber, all are powerful, she thought. But awake, we are trapped by our memories of liberty.
—COLLECTED FOLKTALES
Somber men in dark suits with even darker expressions lined the streets. A few women were scattered among the group, as well, many waving hand-painted picket signs with slogans like WAGES NOT WITCHCRAFT! and FEED THE PEOPLE NOT THE REFUGEES!
Jack’s motorcade wound its way back to the palace. He had spent the afternoon fulfilling a guest appearance Alariq had scheduled at the Export Council. Smiling and touching palms and glad-handing bigwigs and fat cats was not how he’d wanted to spend his day. And now, it seemed, the poor were having their say as well.
He did not begrudge the people their anger, if only they would focus it in the right direction. They needed someone to blame for the misfortunes of late, and the Lagrimari refugees were simply convenient. But the asylum seekers had not caused the poor harvest or the shipping embargo. And their absence could not fix them, either.
A smaller group of refugee supporters standing closer to the palace lifted his spirits somewhat. Not everyone in his land was so callous. Then a woman with a sign reading WHY NOW? rapped on the window as the limo slowed for a sharp turn. Yes, why now?
Back in his office, he’d barely gotten his coat off when his secretary ran up out of breath. “The Council called an emergency meeting an hour ago, Your Grace. They’re voting.”
“Voting on what?”
“I’m not sure, Your Grace. They wouldn’t say.”
“Thank you, Netta.” Jack straightened his suit coat and rushed to the Council Room. He opened the door and six faces regarded him. Some looked shocked, some guilty, and several entirely too smug.
“What is the meaning of this?” he asked, dropping heavily into his seat. The Council could meet as long as a quorum had been reached, but to do so without the Prince Regent present was unheard of.
“Your Grace.” Stevenot’s eyes were wide and round. “The people are demanding action. We could not afford to wait.”
“Action?” Jack’s brows raised.
“Yes, we’ve received a petition with well over two thousand names.”
“And what do all these people want?”
Calladeen leaned forward, hands clasped in front of him. “To eject the refugees from Elsira.”
“We have already voted,” Pugeros added.
Jack held himself very still, reining in his ire. “I see you’ve been most efficient, doing so without the added burden of my presence.”
“It was urgent.” Calladeen’s voice was a rumble.
“The terms the True Father demanded,” Nirall said, looking a bit green. “We’ve agreed to them.”
“You bloody well haven’t!” Jack roared.
“We had to. Public safety is at risk. There was a riot down in Portside this morning.” Nirall’s expression was apologetic.
“You are falling right into his hands! This is what he wants. I will not let you do this. I will veto.”
“And what happens when news of the True Father’s letter gets out and the people learn that we had a chance for peace and did nothing?” Pugeros asked.
“How would word of the letter be made public unless someone in this room does so?” Jack peered at faces gone suddenly blank. “You threaten to reveal classified national secrets to get your way?”
Calladeen spoke. “The Council vote was unanimous, Your Grace. The only way to veto would be to invoke Prince’s Right and dissolve this body.”
A hush fell across the room.
Jack fisted his hands on the armrests. Unanimous? Not even Nirall had seen reason. Jack’s veto would have stood if even one Council member had dissented, but Calladeen was correct. In the history of Elsira, only one other prince had invoked Prince’s Right. That ancestor of his had been branded a tyrant and beheaded in a coup. With the enflamed emotions of the populace being what they were, Jack could not expect his fate to be any different.
The meeting continued around him, wrapping up. The ministers gave him a wide berth. Jack was certain his anger could be felt, radiating off him like waves of heat. He hoped it singed everyone it touched. He had been outmaneuvered, and deftly so. These men wouldn’t have dared do this to his brother, box him into a corner in this way.
The wood grain of the table was smooth against his flattened palms. The voices of the men faded as he studied it.
Here he sat in the chair his brother had occupied. And his father. And his grandfather and great-uncle. A member of the Alliaseen family had been the Prince Regent since the loss of the Queen. The blood in his veins was noble, royal. That was supposed to mean he possessed the best qualities of an Elsiran.
And yet he had lost.
The refugees would be sent back to a life that was not a life. Back to die. He could not save them, any of them.
His mother, gone without a word. His brother, determined to pilot that wretched airship, no matter how foolish. Jasminda, harassed by a member of his own Council, the press nipping at her heels.
He was unworthy of the crown, the responsibility, the power. Even unworthy of the woman he loved.
She had walked away from him in the hallway earlier, as she should have. She’d been in pain—pain he had caused. His heart splintered.
What would his legacy be? Would the pages of the history books be kind? Or would they only remember him for dooming hundreds of innocents? For the loss of an entire nation?
This illusion of peace would be short-lived.
The True Father would destroy the Mantle—perhaps tomorrow or next month or next year. And what then? Being right would not save his people.
The knots in the wood of the table kept their silence, though they stared back at him in accusation. He did not blame them.