Ellin grunted in exasperation when she heard the quiet knock coming from behind the tapestry. She was sitting at her dressing table, still fully clothed, while Star painstakingly removed the pins from the intricate headdress she’d worn for the evening’s formal dinner.
Ellin met her maid’s eyes in the glass. Star was fully aware of the disastrous end to Ellin’s affair with Graesan, just as she was aware that there was only one person in the palace who would have the gall to come knocking on that secret door.
“Shall I let him in?” Star asked as she carefully lifted off the headdress and laid it on the table. Ellin’s hair looked frightful in the aftermath.
Ellin wanted to say no. It was not only supremely impertinent for Zarsha to take such a liberty, but it was also dangerous. What if someone other than Star had been in the room with her?
And when is anyone but Star in the bedroom with me at night? she asked herself with a little stab of self-pity. She had received a brief letter from Graesan when he’d arrived in Nandel to let her know he was all right, but since then she had heard nothing. Zarsha insisted it was for the best that she cut her ties with her former lover entirely, but sometimes when she was alone at night in her bed, she battled tears of longing and loneliness.
“I suppose you had better,” Ellin said, trying vainly to smooth down the tangled mess the headdress had made of her hair. “I’m sure he wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t important.”
Twice before, he’d shown up at her bedroom door for the kind of private audience she could not grant him during the day without having to explain herself. The royal council—especially Semsulin—was extremely jealous of her time, and many of them were getting impatient with Zarsha’s extended visit. Ellin had no doubt Tamzin was behind that growing impatience.
Giving up on her hair, she stood up and turned around as Star confirmed the identity of her nocturnal visitor, then opened the door and let him in. He was still dressed for evening in a simple gray brocade doublet and closely fitted black breeches. The ensemble was strikingly sober and highly unfashionable for Rhozinolm gentry with its lack of color and adornment, but Ellin found the simple clothing made his impressive physique and handsome face into an adornment all on their own. There was a reason the ladies of the court all swooned over his looks. Even Star was looking at him approvingly from under lowered lashes.
Zarsha bowed gracefully. “Forgive the intrusion, Your Majesty.”
Ellin’s mouth twitched with the beginnings of a smile at the way Star was looking at him. “Thank you, Star,” she said. “I will call when I am ready for you again.”
Star curtsied, but Ellin didn’t fail to notice the tiny smirk and the twinkle in her maid’s eyes. She had little doubt the woman was matchmaking again, for she had liked Zarsha from the very beginning and seemed baffled by Ellin’s resistance to the match. Of course, considering she’d recognized the connection between Ellin and Graesan without having to be told, perhaps she’d never been as baffled as she’d pretended.
When the door closed behind Star, Zarsha invited himself to sit in one of the armchairs by the fireplace. She narrowed her eyes at him, and he grinned at her unrepentantly.
“I’m alone with you in your bedroom at night,” he said. “I think the rules of propriety need no longer apply.”
She snorted. “That’s no excuse for being rude.”
He heaved a long-suffering sigh and rose to his feet. A muscle in Ellin’s jaw twitched. Ever since that night when Graesan had attacked him, Zarsha had been exceedingly relaxed and familiar with her, though admittedly his behavior in front of others was impeccable. It was true that since that night they had been co-conspirators of a sort and that perhaps that called for a little relaxation of the usual protocols, but he was taking it too far.
“Why are you here?” she asked, folding her arms and pointedly not inviting him to retake his seat.
“I suspect word will reach your own people by tomorrow or the next day at the latest,” he said, “but I thought it best you have early warning.”
“Warning of what?”
“Jinnell Rah-Sylnin is on her way to Nandel for a state visit.”
Ellin suppressed a gasp as the implications immediately slapped her in the face. “Your uncle is in search of a new bride. And King Delnamal is trotting his niece out for his assessment.”
Zarsha nodded. “There’s no other reason the girl would be traveling to Nandel so soon after the late king’s death. It’s possible King Delnamal is seeking a divorce from Queen Shelvon and is trying to soften the blow in advance. It is also possible he is seeking to strengthen the bond between Aaltah and Nandel via a second state marriage, and that could be disastrous for Rhozinolm.”
The only reason Ellin’s council was not pressing her to expel Zarsha was because they were so concerned about the upcoming expiration of the trade agreements with Nandel—a problem that was brought to the table for discussion every once in a while without any sign of a resolution. Semsulin had even recently introduced the possibility of a renewed marriage agreement between herself and Zarsha—with the stipulation that Zarsha not be named king—but had been quickly shouted down. He had floated the idea on Ellin’s command to test the mood of the council, and the answer had been unequivocal.
After that meeting, Tamzin had once again demanded a private audience. She and Semsulin had hoped that during that “private” audience, Tamzin might forget himself and say something treasonous—which Semsulin would “just happen” to overhear—but either Tamzin had more self-control than they’d given him credit for, or he’d had some inkling that he and Ellin weren’t as alone as it seemed.
A second state marriage between the royal houses of Aaltah and Nandel would all but destroy her chances to renew those trade agreements.
“We have to convince your council to let us marry,” Zarsha said. “If you lose your trade agreements with Nandel while Nandel strikes exclusive agreements with Aaltah…”
She did not need him to complete the sentence. The last war between Aaltah and Rhozinolm had ended before she was born, but the bad blood that existed between the two kingdoms was still evident, especially in the older generations. During that war, both kingdoms had laid claim to the Midlands, the strip of land between the Twin Rivers that bordered both their kingdoms. The war had ended when both kingdoms had ceded their claims to the Midlands Well, and the Midlands had become—as it had been off and on throughout history—an independent principality. Ellin knew for a fact that many of the older members of her council—even Semsulin, with his generally steady temper—still considered the Midlands to be the rightful territory of Rhozinolm, and there was no reason to expect that the people of Aaltah did not feel the same way.
She shook her head. “The council will never agree.” And even if they somehow could be persuaded, there was still Tamzin to be considered. He would happily sacrifice the good of the kingdom in service to his own ambitions. If he were somehow outvoted by the rest of the council, he would almost certainly begin preparations for war.
Zarsha said nothing, cocking his head and staring at her. It took her a moment to realize she had accepted his declaration without argument or demur. She waited for the surge of resistance that always rose in her when she considered the possibility of marrying Zarsha, but there was nothing but acceptance. She hadn’t noticed it happening, but somehow within the past weeks and months she’d come to realize that marrying Zarsha was her only logical choice, and it wasn’t just because of the trade agreements.
If she insisted on remaining unmarried, Tamzin would chip away at what remained of her support until she had a rebellion on her hands—which would swiftly be followed by a bloody fight between Tamzin and Kailindar for the throne. If she married anyone but Tamzin, she would face the same problem. And marrying Tamzin was out of the question.
“The council will have to agree to our marriage,” Zarsha said. “They put you on the throne to avoid a war between Tamzin and Kailindar, and that is why they will want to keep you there.”
She shook her head. He hadn’t been in all those council meetings, hadn’t seen the skillful way Tamzin had little by little captured more and more support. He’d whittled away at her authority—never openly challenging her, but finding countless sly ways to accomplish the same goal—and he’d even caused her to alienate Kailindar, who showed no sign of having forgiven her for stripping his ceremonial title.
“He has won them over, and they are all expecting me to marry him.”
“Not Lord Semsulin,” Zarsha said with authority. She probably didn’t want to know why he felt so sure.
“No, not him,” she agreed, for her chancellor clearly held Tamzin in the same contempt and distrust as she did. “But he’s only one man.”
A heavy silence descended on the room, and it was a long time before Zarsha finally broke it.
“If Tamzin weren’t around to cause trouble,” he said slowly, “do you suppose that would change the mood of the council?”
Ellin stiffened and glared at him. “If Tamzin were on the throne, he’d be just the sort to kill off all his rivals to make his life easier. I am not Tamzin.”
Perhaps she’d overplayed her outrage, for Zarsha was giving her that assessing look again. She met his eyes coldly, hoping to mask the reality that, to her great shame, the same thought had more than once crossed her own mind. But she was neither a murderer nor a tyrant, and she refused to simply eliminate an inconvenient rival.
“As I see it, My Queen, you have three options,” Zarsha said. “You can marry him, you can meet him on the battlefield, or you can kill him. Personally, I find the third option by far the most appealing. It can be handled in secret, with no blame falling to you. He has other enemies, after all, who would be more than happy to see him dead.”
She shook her head. “There has to be some other way,” she whispered.
Zarsha crossed the distance between them and put his hands on her shoulders. Another of his overly familiar gestures, but she was too shaken to protest.
“You are a good person,” he said. “Your reluctance to condemn him is admirable and decent. But if you are to be a good queen, you cannot always be admirable and decent. Find some pretext to summon Kailindar to Zinolm Well, and leave the rest to me.” He grinned. “Perhaps all we need do is have them both in the palace at the same time for an extended period to see our needs met without us having to make an effort.”
“I will not have someone murdered in cold blood,” she insisted.
“But summon Kailindar anyway. I promise I will not take any steps to eliminate Tamzin without your permission, but it might be best to have a scapegoat at the ready just in case.”
“In case of what?” she snapped.
“In case Tamzin does something to make you change your mind. If he begins to feel threatened, if he begins to think he has not sufficiently cowed you into agreeing to a marriage, he could escalate in the blink of an eye.”
Ellin hated the entire idea, hated that she would even contemplate the unlawful killing of a rival. She had no wish to become a tyrant. But loath as she was to admit it, Zarsha was right. Tamzin had made it clear he would stop at nothing to make the throne his, and if she could not find some middle ground, she would have to at least leave herself the option of eliminating him altogether.
“I’ll summon Kailindar,” she said. “But you’d better be certain nothing happens to Tamzin without my permission or I’ll know you’re behind it.”
He put his hand over his heart and bowed. “You have my word I will not act without your permission. However, I must remind you that—”
“Kailindar and Tamzin hate each other. But if Kailindar takes this opportunity to kill Tamzin, I’ll still know you’re behind it. They haven’t killed each other yet, and it would be too much of a coincidence if it were to happen just now.”
Zarsha looked disgruntled. “I suppose I’ll have to keep watch on Kailindar while he’s here, then, lest I find myself unjustly accused.”
“Just so we’re clear—he dies without my command, and you will never be my husband. Understood?”
Zarsha bowed again. “Yes, Ellin, I understand. And I have every intention of becoming your husband.”
Ellin couldn’t tell whether that strange sensation in her belly was anticipation or dread.
When Tynthanal began standing whenever Alys entered a room, others quickly adopted the practice. Alys made the tactical error of making only a mild protest, when in fact she should have insisted unequivocally that everyone keep their seats. She could only blame the distraction of her fear for her children—and her concentration on the urgent research and development of defensive magic—for not seeing where her lack of protest would lead.
She was quicker to remonstrate—and more adamant—when Chanlix addressed her as “Your Highness” in a council meeting. Chanlix apologized and backed down, and Alys thought she had finally made her point. Even though the people of Women’s Well still insisted on standing when she entered a room.
But it wasn’t until Alys overheard a former abigail referring to her as “Princess Alysoon” that she truly recognized what was happening. Until then, she had thought only the members of their little town council knew about the discussion of declaring independence. Looking back, she realized that shortly after that meeting, even those closest to her had stopped calling her “Alys,” as friends and family had always done. It seemed she was now “Alysoon” to her face, and “Princess Alysoon” when she was out of earshot. And she knew exactly who to blame for that.
The moment she overheard that fateful title, she marched straight for the area she referred to as the barracks—and which she knew others were calling the Citadel. As usual, Tynthanal was supervising his soldiers and trainees as they drilled and sparred, but she ignored all the activity around her—and all the curious stares—as she stamped toward him and pointed her finger.
“I want to talk to you! Right now!”
Tynthanal sighed and turned to the pair of teenagers he’d been training. “Carry on without me. And try not to kill each other while I’m gone.” He turned away and gestured for Alys to follow.
She ground her teeth, for though his gesture was of a brother to his sister—rather than a subject to his sovereign—it was now easy to see in hindsight how much more formally he’d behaved toward her as of late. She was not fooled by the casual gesture, and she doubted any of his men were, either.
“You have to stop this,” she growled at him the moment they were out of earshot.
He raised his eyebrows and attempted a look of innocence. “Stop what?”
“You know what,” she snapped. “I just heard myself referred to as ‘Princess Alysoon.’ By someone who was not privy to our discussion of declaring independence, no less. That means someone—or multiple someones—from the council has been wagging his or her tongue in public.”
“And you think that someone is me.”
“You, and maybe Chanlix, too. I wouldn’t put it past you two to gang up on me.”
“We’re not ganging up on you,” he replied, putting his innocent act to pasture. “We’re just—”
“Encouraging people to treat me like the sovereign princess over my clearly stated objections. If word gets back to Delnamal…” Her throat tightened in panic as she imagined what Delnamal might do to her children if he had any inkling she’d even considered declaring herself a sovereign princess.
Tynthanal gave a huff of impatience. “If word gets back to Delnamal about anything that’s happening here in Women’s Well, he will declare us traitors. And mark my words, Alysoon: it will get back to him. Sooner, rather than later. Your determination to deny what everyone else can see is the inevitable is absurd.”
“That isn’t your decision to make,” she grated, wanting to shake him. His jaw jutted out stubbornly in a way that reminded her of their father when he was at his most implacable, her words bouncing off some invisible emotional shield.
“It isn’t yours, either,” he retorted. His temper had always been slow to rouse, but it was wide awake now. “The lives of every single man, woman, and child in this town are in danger because of decisions we’ve all made over the course of months. With Delnamal on the throne, we can no longer hope for leniency or tolerance. That makes you our only hope. The people of Women’s Well have already declared you their sovereign princess, and it’s not because of anything Chanlix or I have said. Every time you deny it, you are crushing our hopes.”
Alys felt almost dizzy with panic. “Don’t put this on me!” she wailed, closing her eyes, feeling like she might collapse under the impossible burden of expectation. “Don’t ask me to choose between the people of this town and my children.”
“I’m not putting anything on you, Alys,” he said more gently. “I’m telling you that if you do nothing, we will eventually be condemned as traitors and we will die. If you imagine your children will live long and healthy lives after that happens, then you are lying to yourself.”
Her stomach roiled, and for a moment she feared she might be sick. It was hard to argue Tynthanal’s logic. Children of declared traitors rarely went on to live long and happy lives. Especially sons. And she had already given Delnamal more than enough excuse to declare her a traitor once he learned the truth of what was happening in Women’s Well.
“None of us—not you, not me, not the people of this town, not your children—has a hope of survival unless we forge an alliance with Rhozinolm and revolt against the Crown,” Tynthanal said. “Those are the bald facts, and denying them doesn’t make them go away.”
“I know,” she whispered, her hands clenching into fists at her sides. She met his eyes. “I know. But just…give me some time.”
“Alys—”
“Give me time to plan my approach to Queen Ellinsoltah. I would much prefer to secure an alliance before we make any public announcement.”
Alys couldn’t blame her brother for regarding her with such open skepticism. Even she had to admit to the possibility that she was stalling.
“Don’t take too much time,” he cautioned. “Every day you delay brings us one day closer to our doom.”
Alys did not need that reminder.
Shelvon stood toe-to-toe with Master Wilbaad and refused to be cowed by his conviction in his own authority.
“If the king expected Corlin to have his usual lessons today, then he would have arranged for a healer to see to the boy’s wounds,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest. Beneath her dress, she wore the stays Jinnell had given her last night, and on her finger, she wore the ring. She and Jinnell and Falcor had agreed that Corlin couldn’t simply fail to turn up for his lessons today. Master Wilbaad would scour the palace for him and sound the alarm when he couldn’t be found.
“He will take his lessons on his feet,” Wilbaad insisted. “A well-deserved thrashing does not excuse him from his responsibilities.”
Wilbaad had the temerity to attempt to step around her, and Shelvon quickly put herself in his path. Her heart was pounding, and her palms were damp with sweat, for she was very aware that the man’s life lay in her hands. If she could not persuade him to leave, then she would have to use Jinnell’s ring to put him to sleep, and Falcor would kill him and hide the body. While she despised Master Wilbaad and believed he deserved to be on the receiving end of the many thrashings he had meted out, she had no wish to see him dead. Not to mention that the need to hide the body would delay their flight from the palace, which they could ill afford. They needed every hour and every minute they could get to distance themselves from the palace before they were discovered missing.
“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.