Queen of the Unwanted Page 12

  “You’re about one word short of a treason charge,” she interrupted, her voice still calm despite the anger that coiled in her breast. She was sure that such sentiments had been voiced in private among her advisers and among the rich and powerful men of Rhozinolm. And she suspected her dismissal of Lord Creethan would give new strength to those whispers, which was likely why he had said it. An implicit threat that might persuade even Semsulin that she was making the right decision. “There is only one hysterical person in this room, and I assure you it is not I. If you think this is somehow furthering your case for reinstatement, you are very much mistaken.”

  For a moment, she feared she would have to order her guards to physically remove Lord Creethan. He looked like a man contemplating violence—an impression the obvious readiness of the guards reinforced. Her heart throbbed in her throat, and she struggled to keep all she was feeling from showing on her face. Her serenity in the face of his fury would do nothing to change his opinion of her, but she refused to show him even a glimpse of weakness.

  “Let’s just hope we don’t all come to regret this,” he finally said, in a tone that suggested a very different sentiment altogether. He’d worded it in such a way that she didn’t quite feel justified in calling it an overt threat—and therefore slapping a treason charge on him after all—but she was very much aware that she’d made a powerful enemy.

  I hope it’s worth it, Your Majesty, Semsulin’s voice whispered in her mind.

  But Ellin felt sure that whatever the consequences, Lord Creethan did not belong on her royal council.

  CHAPTER TEN

  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 ex
pression, 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.”