Queen of the Unwanted Page 2

  “She is mine however and whenever I want her,” he responded simply. “I have no need to woo her or cajole her, and she is not in any great demand.” Most men would look at her pockmarked face and turn their attentions to the more comely abigails in the Abbey. “I gain no personal advantage by suggesting her promotion.”

  Of course, that wasn’t strictly true. Mairahsol would happily allow him into her bed—even without payment—whether she was abbess or abigail. But as much as he enjoyed bedding her, he was far more interested in her other formidable talents. Her ability to sniff out secrets and spy on her fellow abigails—and, more important, their customers—had already saved Jalzarnin’s place on the council once. If she had not overheard Lord Deenan admitting to his taste for young boys, that ambitious and well-thought-of priest might have succeeded in his plan to curry favor with the king and supplant Jalzarnin. Men were forever talking more than they should in women’s beds, and that one incident had driven home exactly how Jalzarnin could take advantage of the situation.

  But several months ago, Mairahsol had made a misstep and been caught eavesdropping. The late abbess—who had made it clear she detested Mairahsol—had punished the poor woman so severely that Mairahsol had refused to undertake any more intelligence gathering missions on his behalf. Having seen the welts and bruises left by the beating, Jalzarnin could hardly blame her. However, if she was the abbess, she would have access to a great deal of information without having to be sneaky at all. And if she was caught spying, she would not be subject to punishment.

  He did hope she had the necessary skills to craft a spell to reverse the Curse—and he was well aware that much of the glory of such a spell would spill over onto him, for the king would remember his wise counsel—but her skills as a spy were valuable to him regardless.

  The king let out a soft snort of laughter as he shook his head and turned back to his lord high priest. “You are not made for subterfuge, my friend,” he said, but the sourness and annoyance were gone from both his face and his voice.

  Jalzarnin stiffened and had to bite back a sharp retort. “There is no subterfuge, Your Majesty,” he protested in as mild a tone as he could manage. Ulterior motives he could admit to, but that wasn’t the same as subterfuge. And though he’d been King Khalvin’s lord high priest for going on a dozen years, he would hardly term himself the king’s friend.

  The king ignored the protest. “I will have a word with Lord Prindar. Perhaps we can appoint young Mairahsol on a provisional basis. Give her, say, six months to demonstrate her ability to lead the Abbey and make progress toward a cure. If in six months’ time, she has shown herself up to the task, we can discuss making it a permanent appointment.”

  Jalzarnin bowed deeply, letting out a silent sigh of relief. He had come into this meeting expecting either unconditional success or utter failure, but this partial success was satisfactory. Mairahsol might not be able to reverse the Curse in six months—or at all, for that matter—but he had a great deal of faith in her ability to convince the king she was making progress, whether she was or not. And if the worst happened, and she failed, at least he would get six months’ worth of intelligence out of her.

  “Thank you, Your Majesty,” he said, anxious now to escape the study as quickly as possible. He was almost out the door when the king’s voice stopped him in his tracks once more.

  “Out of curiosity,” the king asked softly, “was there any investigation into the death of the previous abbess? I understood her to have been in excellent health, and her age not terribly advanced.”

  Jalzarnin turned back toward the king, keeping his face as expressionless as possible. “There was nothing suspicious about her death that I know of,” he said, which was nothing but the truth. “It is not unheard of for the heart to give out even in a seemingly heathy woman of her age. I could look into it further, if you’d like.” He prayed the king would turn down his offer, for while there was nothing outwardly suspicious about the death, he had to admit to himself that it was…convenient. And that the abbess had been terribly unkind to Mairahsol.

  If Mairahsol had anything to do with the abbess’s death, Jalzarnin would never dream of holding it against her. Indeed, he might applaud her for once again having the courage and will to avenge herself. But all the same, he would prefer not to know.

  “That won’t be necessary,” the king replied, but there was a glitter in his eyes that said he’d seen much more than Jalzarnin was comfortable revealing. His unpredictable moods made it easy to underestimate him, but the king was nothing if not observant.

  This time, when Jalzarnin made to leave, the king let him go.

  CHAPTER TWO

  In the first few weeks that followed the death of her daughter at the hands of her half-brother, Sovereign Princess Alysoon made no attempt to pretend she was anything resembling a rational human being. The grief and the rage—and the crushing guilt at not having protected her child—transformed her into a being of pure emotion and stole her ability to eat and to sleep. She did not leave her home for days at a time, and the weight dropped off her until her dresses hung limp from her gaunt frame. Occasionally, her lady’s maid, Honor, coaxed some food into her and badgered her into lying down for jagged bits of restless sleep. Honor also did her valiant best to keep Alys’s royal council from troubling her with any demands, and for three full weeks after the funeral—a singularly soul-destroying ordeal, for they had no body but only a head to consign to the cleansing flames—Women’s Well functioned, more or less, without any input from its sovereign.

  Eventually, however, her brother—and lord chancellor—Tynthanal grew weary of making allowances.

  Alys was slumped in her usual chair by the fireplace—which was unlit on this warm late-summer day—when she heard Honor’s raised voice coming from the sitting room just beyond. Although Alys had spent most of her days in a fog of alternating numbness and paralyzing grief, some part of her had known she would not be allowed to hide in her den and lick her wounds forever. In point of fact, she was no doubt lucky Tynthanal or one of her other council members hadn’t burst in on her already.

  Alys straightened in her chair, blinking in the dimness of the room, for she had lit no luminants. Honor’s voice took on a pleading tone, but heavy footsteps approached the bedroom door anyway.

  “Alys, I’m coming in,” Tynthanal announced, and there was no room for argument in his voice.

  Alys sighed delicately and smoothed her skirts, trying to drag her mind back from the abyss. She was not ready to face the world yet, wasn’t sure she ever would be again. But even as the grief tried to drag her back down, she realized she could not remain comfortably inside her self-imposed tomb forever. Delnamal had killed Jinnell not because of any special ill will toward his niece, but because he’d known how deeply it would hurt Alys. It was likely he even had hopes that it would destroy her utterly, and if she did not somehow find a way to reclaim her life, she would be letting him win.

  Tynthanal hesitated a moment at the door—either because he was hoping for an invitation or because he thought Alys needed that critical moment to prepare herself. Then, the door opened and he stepped inside. With the covered windows and the lack of luminants, he appeared as nothing more than a dark silhouette, framed by the doorway. Honor hovered anxiously at his shoulder, one hand stretched out toward him as though she might physically hold him back, though she had more sense than to try.

  Tynthanal muttered a curse under his breath, then strode to one of the windows and yanked the curtains open, letting in a blinding beam of desert light. Alys squinted and raised her hand to shade her eyes as Tynthanal crossed to the other side of the room and opened more curtains. Alys wasn’t entirely sure what time it was, though she vaguely remembered Honor had brought her some lunch not all that long ago, so it was probably the early afternoon.

  “I’m sorry, Your Royal Highness,” Honor said from the doorway, wring
ing her hands anxiously. “He wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

  Honor looked so distraught that Alys experienced a stab of guilt. She imagined she’d been snappish and unpleasant, and though Honor no doubt fully understood her state of mind—and shared her grief, for she had loved Jinnell—that didn’t mean Alys’s behavior hadn’t been hurtful. No effort of will could dredge up anything resembling a smile, but Alys hoped she managed an expression that was at least reasonably pleasant.

  “No apologies necessary,” she said, then had to clear her throat, her voice as rusty as if she’d just rolled out of bed. “You couldn’t keep him out indefinitely.”

  Honor bobbed a quick curtsy, then retreated. Alys told herself that as soon as Tynthanal left, she would have to seek Honor out and give the woman an apology of her own. It could not have been easy caring for her over the last weeks, and yet Honor had not once complained or gotten impatient with her. Alys doubted she would have handled the situation with the same grace had their roles been reversed.

  She turned her attention to Tynthanal, who stood by the window and shook his head at her. A lifetime of dressing in military uniform meant he never quite looked himself in the traditional civilian garb of doublet and breeches, but the mourning attire—without all the extra embellishments and color—looked more natural and comfortable than the ornamental dress of a traditional court. His skin was dark enough, both in natural coloration and from countless hours spent in the sun, that the black did not make him look pale or wan. There was a pinched look to his face and shadows under his eyes, but aside from that he looked very much like himself. Grief had not turned him into a hollow, shadowy vessel as it had Alys, and she had to fight down a sudden urge to snarl at him for looking so normal.

  Tynthanal had, of course, loved Jinnell, but he was her uncle, not her father. There was no reason to expect his grief to be as transformative as Alys’s own. And the Principality of Women’s Well was much better off that way, for Alys was sure her brother had been taking care of all sorts of business in her stead, giving her as much time to grieve as he could afford.

  “You’re going to tell me I have to snap out of it,” she said, her voice a little firmer this time.

  Tynthanal blew out a heavy sigh and scrubbed a hand through his hair, which based on its state of disarray had received similar treatment countless times throughout the course of the day. “I was going to be a good deal less insensitive than that.”

  She nodded and pushed to her feet, stifling a groan. She’d been sitting still for far too long, and her joints complained at the sudden demand for movement. Rarely had Alys been as aware of her age as she was right now, and she subtly stretched and shifted her weight, trying to shake off the stiffness. Her neck made nasty crackling sounds as she tilted it first to one side, then the other. Fog still clung to her mind, her thoughts sluggish and dulled, but she knew that if there was one thing that could help restore her to some semblance of her usual self, it would be planning Delnamal’s downfall.

  “But the message would have been the same,” she said. “And you’re right. I cannot sit in my room forever.”

  “No,” Tynthanal agreed gently. “There are people who need you. And you need them just as badly.”

  The words, so innocuous on their surface, triggered another pang in Alys’s chest. Of all the people who needed her, her son, Corlin, should need her the most. And yet despite the fact that he lived in her house, she had barely seen him since the day of the funeral. That was in part her fault, for having not ventured out of her room, but she had told Honor that Corlin was the one person who was allowed to interrupt her grieving whenever he wished. He had not once taken advantage of this permission, and when she sought him, he was almost invariably out, doing who-knew-what. She’d neglected her duty as a mother and failed to question his absences—something she should rectify as soon as Tynthanal left.

  “I will attend tomorrow’s council meeting,” she promised. That would give her almost a full day to prepare herself for the demands she was sure to face once she returned to pubic life and resumed the business of being the Sovereign Princess of Women’s Well.

  Tynthanal’s shoulders slumped with relief. Clearly, he’d come expecting a fight.

  “But before that,” she continued, “I want to speak with you and Lady Chanlix. In private.”

  Tynthanal’s brows drew together in an expression somewhere between confusion and alarm. Alys assumed he and the grand magus were still sleeping together, and she knew Chanlix was worried Alys would frown on the relationship. Tynthanal had never seemed to share Chanlix’s concerns, but the wariness in his eyes suggested perhaps he’d merely kept his concerns deeply hidden.

  “May I ask what about?”

  “I would like the Academy to begin work on a new Kai spell—on an unofficial basis.”

  “Ah,” Tynthanal said, having no trouble following Alys’s thoughts without further explanation. “You want to find a way to send a deadly spell via flier.”

  The spell the former abigails of Women’s Well had developed using women’s Kai was something completely unprecedented. With the spell they’d named Vengeance, a woman who possessed a mote of Kai could use that Kai to send a flier winging to her enemy, and, if the flier found its mark and broke skin, the hapless victim would be rendered permanently impotent. It was a devastating spell, and one that was very difficult to guard against. Alys had tried to strike Delnamal with it, using a mote of Kai donated by Chanlix, but the attack had been foiled. And now that he’d had Jinnell put to death out of pure spite, Vengeance was too mild a spell to fit his crimes.

  “I would prefer to murder Delnamal as slowly and painfully as possible with my own hands,” she growled as the rage in her belly swelled and threatened to overwhelm her. “But my chances of reaching him with a flier are far higher, and I want him dead sooner rather than later.”

  “Understood,” Tynthanal said with a bow.

  * * *

  —

  Mairahsol let out a contented sigh as she snuggled closer to Jalzarnin, enjoying the afterglow—but also enjoying the plush mattress as well as the softness of the sheets. She remembered vaguely that the bed she’d slept on growing up had been even more luxurious, with silken sheets and feather-stuffed pillows, but after ten years of the rock-hard cot in the junior abigails’ dormitory, the beds in the Abbey’s playrooms felt like the pinnacle of decadence. A decadence she’d experienced all too rarely, for her pockmarked face meant she had never worked the Abbey’s pavilion. Until a chance encounter with the lord high priest had, for reasons she did not understand, changed her life.

  Jalzarnin ran a hand through her hair—an affectionate gesture she suspected few men who visited the Abbey would bestow on the abigails who serviced them. She was not naïve enough to believe him in love with her, but she was sure at least some of that affection was genuine. He’d been equally tender with her even before she’d shown her usefulness to him as an amateur spy, and his outrage when he’d seen the results of the beating the late Mother Wyebryn had ordered had been awesome to behold. She’d been afraid his rage would motivate him to act rashly, but he’d eventually calmed—never realizing how much of himself he had revealed to her in that rage.

  “I have some good news for you,” he said when both their pulses had lowered and Mairah was so comfortable she was beginning to drift off to sleep.

  His words banished any hint of sleep, and she sat up with a cry of excitement she could barely contain. He had, of course, believed it was his idea to try to have her appointed abbess, but she had conceived the plan herself even before the fateful beating that had won him entirely to her side. She’d barely allowed herself to hope he would follow through on his promise to advance her cause to the king, and even now she tried to temper her enthusiasm.

  It was nearly impossible to believe her plan could have worked when she’d had so many obstacles to overcome. Not only
had Mother Wyebryn been in good health and expected to rule the Abbey for another decade or two, but Mairah herself had been the woman in the Abbey least likely to succeed her. There was the question of her age, of course. But more damning was the fact that she had not a single friend within the Abbey’s walls. Mother Wyebryn and her cronies—especially the hateful Sister Norah—had had it in for her since the moment she’d first donned the red robes, and they had made it clear to every other abigail in the Abbey that befriending Mairah was a sure path to misery. But then, for whatever reason, Lord Jalzarnin had shown Mairah favor, and she’d begun once again plotting an epic, if improbable, revenge.

  Knowing the effect it would have on her lover—or at least hoping she knew—she had allowed herself to be caught when supposedly spying on his behalf, thereby securing his loyalty through a combination of guilt and self-interest.

  Yet even with Jalzarnin’s help, her plan would have had no chance of working if she hadn’t exaggerated her powers of foresight.

  There was no question in her mind that she could see more elements than any other woman in the Abbey, but as a seer, she was almost entirely untested. Based on her bloodlines, she should have some natural abilities. However, when she’d tried her first seer’s poison—the mildest one available, just to test her tolerance—the pain and the misery it caused her was so wretched she’d vowed never to take another. Almost worse than the ravages of the poison was the punishment—and ridicule—heaped on her by Mother Wyebryn when Mairah had recounted what she’d seen. She’d been called a liar and a fraud and beaten soundly for what was termed her hubris. And yet now it seemed her vision—which had shown her sitting behind the abbess’s desk while still a young woman—had been true all along.

  “You spoke with the king!” she exclaimed, her heart rate shooting all the way back up as her breath nearly froze in her lungs. “Why did you wait so long to tell me?”