Chapter Two
CERN SAT ON THE FLOOR, lockbox to one side, baby to the other.
She'd much rather look at the baby.
In her sleeping child's face she could see herself, her brow, her nose. But the child's chin was another matter, as was her grip, when she would simply not let go. Cern exhaled, dismissing these thoughts and the man who would always lie behind them.
The lockbox, Cern had found, held far more than letters. Lists. Scrawled maps. Cryptic notes of which she could not yet make sense.
Indeed, so packed was the box by her father's various writings, that it was unclear to her exactly where her own papers might someday fit. She would need to remove some of these papers that her father had decided were most precious. Remove and probably destroy. But which ones?
Just like her father to make more work for her.
She was tempted to burn it all unread. She wondered how her various ancestors had dealt with this same problem, and whether or not, at the bottom of the box, she might find a layer of ash.
Well, time to make a start on it. She must read it all, just as she must read the various letters that had come from the Cohort boys and all the other aristo men who were so sure that they now had a chance at the queen's bed.
That thought elicited a deep sigh. She fished down to the middle of the crammed box, drawing out a paper at random, and unfolded it.
Of all the boys, you encourage the mutts? This morning I see you strolling the garden, trailing one to each side, like a hen with two roosters. If this show is to annoy the Houses and unnerve the other boys, well done.
She stared distantly for a moment, clearly recalling that very morning. She had been fifteen. She had felt so mature, the handsome mutt-boys by her side, and had hoped that her father was watching.
He had been.
The letter continued: Pick one. Or pick someone else. The bitch makes the match.
Curious, how that phrase no longer pricked quite so sharply. As a child, she had learned to bear the humiliation of constantly being compared to his dogs.
Then, one day—was she eleven? Twelve?—she made a closer examination of how her father treated his dogs, only to discover that he showered them with touch and kind words. The hard truth, she realized bitterly, was that he treated his dogs better than he treated his daughter.
Envy was a greater humiliation.
And now?
In a sense, he had been right: she had made the match. Wisdom or foolishness, encouraging the mutts to court her, then choosing one, had been entirely her decision.
She read on.
If you ask my advice—and I know that you never will—I would lay out for you their respective virtues. Pohut can be charming and diplomatic, and that is a benefit not to be underestimated. But Innel is clever and there is steel within his impetuousness. In truth, the mutts show more ambition and wit than any of the rest of the Cohort boys.
That assessment surprised her. It matched her own.
Wed the younger. His edges can be smoothed, his abrasiveness reined to good use. I would choose the elder but for his sloppy sliver of tenderness, like a boy who cannot bring himself to toss a bag of kittens into the river.
She snorted, amused. Her father had hated cats.
Unless—do you encourage them only to annoy me? If so, your cut is wide of the mark. Rather, I would be pleased to see the mutts win over the rest of the lazy Cohort brats.
She laughed a little in spite of herself, and her thoughts turned to how cleverly the mutt boys had shaped their courtship of her. Why, she remembered the one time that Innel—
No.
Innel must be as dead to her as Pohut was. She must believe that she had seen him hanged, the traitor whom she had condemned.
She could not and would not imagine him alive. It was essential to arrange her thoughts, and not let them arrange her.
And this letter—it could never be seen. Never. She crumpled it into a tight wad.
"Sacha," she called. The other woman came quickly to her side. "A plate and flame."
Sachare glanced at the open box, then back at Cern. "Is that wise, your grace?"
"I doubt it."
A guard's knock at the door, and Sachare went to confer. She turned back to Cern. "Mulack is walking the halls, properly dressed this time, and asking, rather insistently, to see you."
The moment Cern had sent the traitor to the tower, the letters from the Houses and Cohort had begun. They begged meetings and the chance to make their case. Why favor Mulack?
Because he had come to her delivering hard news that no one else had. He had worn servant's livery to do it. Annoying, yes, but Mulack had risked pride as well as reputation.
"Find out what he wants," she said grudgingly.
Sacha stepped outside, leaving the door cracked open. Cern got to her feet, after checking that the baby was still asleep, and stepped closer to eavesdrop as Sachare directed the guards to let the eparch-heir into the antechamber.
"One visit emboldens you to this intrusion?" Sachare asked chidingly. "This is not an audience chamber, Mulack."
"She needs someone by her side during this challenging time, Cohort sister."
"The ashes still cool in Execution Square, and you come to court? Have you no sense of propriety?"
"Again, I sacrifice my honor for the queen's benefit. There is no time to waste."
Sachare scoffed. "You exceed yourself, Mulack."
"Who else shall I exceed? Sacha, I am Cohort and eparch-heir of a Great House. Not least, not hard to look on."
Sachare scoffed.
"I simply want to present my petition, Cohort sister. I'll be blunt: the queen must have more children, and soon, to secure House and royal support. Of course we are all delighted to our depths and heights at the as-yet-unnamed princess, but perhaps a child by a father who is both alive and..."
"Mulack," Sachare said warningly.
"Pah. When a fine warhorse mates with an ass, who expects greatness? No one."
"Did you just insult the heir to the empire's throne? Has your sense entirely fled? You tread near the line, Eparch-heir."
"And not afraid to. Isn't that what she needs in a consort? I have proven both my courage and my loyalty. I am an exceptional candidate. Let me talk to her."
"When the queen is ready for such conversations, she will make her will known."
"You would have me stand in a crowd? Surely Her Royal Majesty understands that he who attends earliest attends best. My opinion only, Cohort sister, offered to her grace as a small increment to her vaster wisdom."
"I will inform her of that you came by. Uninvited and impertinently. Next time, consider a note and a gift."
"A trifle, for the queen of the Arunkel empire?" He barked a laugh loud enough to assure Cern that this was all performance, and that he knew she was listening. "When I have a Great House and a man of standing to offer her?"
An exasperated sigh from Sachare. "Good day, House Murice."
"Good day, Sachare sev Cern esse Arunkel esau Niala esse Arunkel."
Thoughtful flattery, that, Cern thought, using a formal name for Sachare that mentioned Cern, yet skipped her father Restarn entirely, linking her instead to her famous great-grandmother. It showed a certain amount of respect.
When Mulack was gone, Sachare came back inside, shutting the door behind. Cern motioned them both to the lockbox and the baby. Sachare brought a lamp and plate, then took the baby in her arms. The child reached out toward the flame, and whined when her desire was thwarted.
Cern set the paper ball that was her father's letter on the plate, then lit it. The three of them watched it as it flared and then contracted, going from coal-red to gray ash.
A fitting end, Cern reflected, to the experiment of marrying one of the mutt brothers.
Sachare was speaking to the child—who really needed a name—and offering her a ball to play with instead of the ash-filled plate, which Cern put up on a table that she could not yet reach.
Cern looked about the toy-strewn room, and considered with weary dread the many gifts now pouring in since the execution, the volume beginning to rival what was already in inventory for the heir's birth.
So many things.
The mutt brothers had understood gifts. In a box somewhere, Cern still had the rock that they had given her one Solstice long ago. A sweet memory, though perhaps tarnished by the years that had followed.
Her search for a new Consort would require delicate balance. Every House would send at least one candidate, and Cern would need to select even the order in which she received them with great care so as to not offend.
It had always been a lot of work to keep the Houses in balance. Favors, praise, and promises were never quite enough. This was why Cern had studied the empire's history so deeply, to know what had been done before, what it had meant, and what it might mean now.
The balance must be preserved, as must the conflicts. If the eight Great Houses ever stopped fighting among themselves, they might think to challenge Anandynar rule, and the monarchy couldn't stand against them.
Not even all eight. The most potent four would do. Fortunately, that set changed every decade or so, and rarely did more than two Houses get along well enough to make trouble.
It hadn't happened yet, but it still could.
The current set of four included House Murice, wealthy from textiles and dye, and Mulack was uncontested eparch-heir. That would make him an interesting choice, since he couldn't possibly keep both positions.
How would Helata and Kincel respond to such a choice? Not well, Cern was certain; they considered themselves far superior to Murice.
And what about Etallan?
The crown had to make up with Etallan. Marrying them into the royal line would do it, but Helata and Kincel—and Murice—would object strenuously.
Mulack in particular would be offended, now that he had put himself forward so valiantly. So vulnerably.
She wondered if Etallan could be bought off again with the honor of two places in the heir's Royal Cohort, as it had been bought in her Cohort. Or if Etallan might finally have grown tired of chances.
She heaved a sigh. This was one of the many reasons Cern had been happy to take one of the mutt brothers. They had no House, so everyone could be equally annoyed at her choice. The balance was maintained.
That easy answer was gone.
"He is rather annoying, isn't he," Sachare said, drawing the baby's attention with a stuffed dog. The baby took it from her, and put one entire leg into her mouth, drooling around it.
Cern reviewed Mulack's words, spoken to Sachare but clearly meant for her.
"He is that," Cern said, "but he's not wrong."
"That doesn't make him right," muttered Sachare.
"We are ready, your grace." Sachare stood from her final inspection of baby, carriage, and the trusted quin of guards that surrounded them.
Cern gave a last look into the mirror, at her pomegranate and gold sleeves, a fuchsia vesture heavy with black brocade depicting the Anandynar crest, and the thick ribbon of gold weave across her shoulders that stood in for an unwieldy crown.
It all felt heavy. They had spent hours dressing this morning, to achieve what was elegant, formal, and—by royal standards—austere.
Only the weakest rely upon finery to make them appear royal. Dress well, daughter, but never expect fabric and metal to carry authority for you.
Cern stared at herself a moment longer, reflecting on these words and what she was about to do.
As they left antechamber, another quin of queensguards joined them. In the hallway, a third fell into place around them. Circles and circles, every step as choreographed as a royal Star Dance.
Another twenty paces, and Nalas and his own men joined her retinue. Cern exchanged a look with him and gave him a nod which he returned as a short bow.
Nalas had been a difficult decision.
"The royal guard and the army trust him," said General Lismar, Cern's father's sister. "Continuity of command is more than important—it's essential—especially in unsettled times. But he was Innel's man, Your Grace, and there's no getting around that."
When she showed Nalas the evidence against his former commander, he seemed truly shocked. Then angry. At himself. At Innel. He offered to resign.
Cern examined him for long moments. She considered the years gone by, and the many upon whom she must rely each moment for her very life.
Was Nalas wondering, as he bore her silent regard, if he would be lucky to keep his? Probably so. Yet there he stood, waiting for her judgment.
At last she spoke. "Can I trust you, Nalas?"
"Absolutely, Your Majesty."
"Will you re-swear your oath to me?"
"Without hesitation."
A balance of risks. Always. Cern made Nalas her new Lord Commander.
As her huge procession walked the hall, Nalas and his men nearby, palace denizens stood at the walls and bowed.
Her aunt had also mentioned Cern's uncle, Lismar's brother. "Your father's Lord Commander, Lason sev Restarn."
Lason, replaced by Innel, had resisted that change in status most adamantly. He had been furious and had taken his household to some far province, supposedly without leaving any notice, but anyone who really wanted to know where he was knew that he was in Palapa.
"You recommend him as Lord Commander?" Cern asked Lismar.
"Hardly," Lismar said wryly. "But he is Anandynar blood, and there are many among the royals who would be very pleased to have him back."
One of their own. Bound in word and blood, said the motto. Many royals seemed to think the blood part more important.
"We shall have him back, then. Would send for him, and see if he can be convinced?"
"Of course, Your Grace."
Cern and her retinue arrived at the great doors. She paused a moment to collect her thoughts.
Her limbs felt heavy, her eyes wanted to close, and she knew from the mirror that her pallor was not yet restored to normal. Yet she must convince the ministers that she was fully restored.
Show no weakness, her father had written. Step with assuredness.
She gave a sharp nod. The seneschal opened the doors for her, and stood back. Cern entered the Amardide Room, with Sachare and carriage and all the guards.
A bell's time had come and gone, and the council had not yet moved from the first topic. Cern felt her focus fraying and the chair under her felt exceedingly hard. Her mind kept turning to how good her bed would feel when she made it back to her room.
Words pushed into silence become louder. You already know what you think; find out what they do.
She had let them go on for some time now, curious to see what they would do with her attention, gone for so long.
The First Minister leaned back in his chair, "Perhaps improvement might be achieved with regards to, hmm. The fourth, fifth, and sixth positions? Your aunt at the ninth—the problem there—" he poked at the air, as if it somehow that would make his point clearer, "Since she was favored by your great grandmother, only second to your father the great king, it may well be a stronger succession list if she were higher. Also—"
The Ministers will try to convince you that they know better than you do. Don't rely on it being true.
Cern held up a hand. The First Minister continued for many words before he came to a stop.
A small thing, a toe over the line, but Cern noticed it.
"Other than my daughter in position one," Cern said, "and two other names swapped, Minister, what I have presented here is little different from my father's list, which you must surely recall."
"Naturally. But times change, Your Majesty."
Enough for each of the Ministers to have been richly rewarded by royals with agendas, no doubt. But she would not say that, and they would never admit it if she did.
Just as they would not confess to being discomfited by her unnamed child, the one fathered by a traitor, at the top of that list.
"Ministers, I have heard your advice and perspectives on this matter of such essence to the prosperity and security of our empire. The list remains as I have given it."
"But—"
"I am no longer seeking your advice, ministers. I am directing you to carry out my will."
The ministers exchanged looks, along with small raises of eyebrows. There were even hints of smiles.
Cern clamped down on the flash of anger she felt. They would not have dared, had her father been sitting here instead. But she must pretend that she hadn't noticed. For now.
"Of course, Your Majesty," said the First Minister, a bit late.
She looked around. Dips of heads.
"And the regent?" asked the Minister of Justice.
"I have named the heir's regent," Cern said, bringing forth a piece of paper, sliding it to the First Minister. As the paper made the rounds to each minister, she watched their faces.
Cern was pleased to see shocked expressions. She had told only her most trusted scribe, who had clearly kept the secret.
The paper came back around the table to Cern. She put a hand flat atop it.
"Is my will on this matter evident to everyone?"
"Yes, Your Majesty. Most certainly," said the First Minister, unhappily. "Though it might well be sensible for you to consider the many other qualified persons, with far more experience in governance than—"
"All of whom have an agenda which is perhaps not in concert with mine. The name stands."
Opening mouths and inhales took her attention. One by one, she gave those ministers and the rest her attention, until each nodded or offered a seated lean that served as a bow. Cern took her time, gathering from each approval, or at least grudging acquiescence.
It would have to do.
As Cern looked over her shoulder, the ministers looked where she was looking.
She did, she had to admit, feel a pinprick's worth of guilt. But it was a necessary test.
To be regent, a Cohort education, fine and exacting, was a good start. But such a person must also be able to sustain grace and composure under quickly changing circumstances and sudden scrutiny.
Sachare looked up from the child, now fussing in the carriage, suddenly aware that the room had gone silent and all were staring at her.
Cern spoke. "Do you accept my appointment as regent, Sachare sev Cern esse Arunkel?"
One expressionless blink and a slight swallow were the only signs that Sachare didn't know in advance. Sachare stood from where she had been sitting by the carriage and gave deep bow to Cern.
"Humbly and obediently, Your Excellent Majesty."
Cern gave a sharp nod. Done and settled.
Now, surely, she could go back to bed.
"Does the heir have a name yet, Your Majesty, by which we might address her and her regent?" The First Minister asked.
"She does," Cern replied mildly, getting to her feet.
The room was so still that she could hear the creak of a leather seat as the Minister of Accounts shifted his ample backside.
Never forget that the ministers are your servants. Never let them forget, either.
"And what is that name, Your Majesty?"
Cern looked around the room. It did not seem to her that anyone else was breathing. Even Sachare leaned forward eagerly to catch her next words.
"When I am ready to tell you, you will know."
Renounce me. Protect my queen and child.
Nalas walked the hall, his men around him, the words echoing in his mind along with stark, gray images of the execution. At the last, the hooded body swung, nothing more than a man-shaped bundle of meat.
But were those the words of a traitor?
The question haunted him. Not that he had had much time to consider it, or much else, since then, now that he was now Lord Commander. He'd interviewed every queensguard himself, and he'd barely slept. He began to think he understood Innel's instability better than he wanted to.
Nalas had not been in Innel's office that final day—that shocking day. He had come running from the garrison the moment he had heard, to see Innel marched from the room, to have one last whispered conversation.
Protect my queen and child.
He had not been in that room, but what had been said made its way to Nalas's ears, so he knew something about what Innel suspected. He'd sent the guard Radelan to a lesser unit, far from the queen and child. "Until things settle out," Nalas had told him.
If they ever did.
Nalas turned a corner, increasing his speed to a fast stride. His men took double-steps to pace.
That there were threats against the queen and child, Nalas didn't doubt. Their source, though, he had no idea. So he tried to watch everyone, in every direction.
It simply wasn't possible.
If he'd been allowed to speak to Innel between imprisonment and execution, who knew what he might have found out. Maybe, as had been suggested, Innel was no longer to be trusted. None of his words. Perhaps not even his sanity.
And Srel had vanished, and that a true tragedy, with all that he knew about the Lord Commander.
Though, Nalas admitted, it might have been a tragedy for Srel if he had stayed, too. Nalas, in Srel's position, might have done the very same.
Nearly had, when the opportunity to slip out of the palace had presented itself. But he had stayed.
Why?
Well, Dirina and Pas, of course. Nalas would have needed to arrange to take them with him, and that would have been tricky. But there was more to it than that. It was those last words, Innel's last command. Using different words, they were the very oath Nalas had taken to the queen, an oath he would not betray.
Nalas was now striding the halls as fast as he could without looking like he was desperate for time, which he of course was. He had put off this very task now too many days in a row and would put it off no longer.
Innel had said one more thing to him in that whispered moment. Watch your back.
Queensguards and soldiers saluted, quick and sharp, as he walked past. The new title. Or maybe his new glower. He used to be friendly with them. Amiable.
He used to have a commander.
He passed an open door—a darkened room. Nalas scowled and one of his men peeled away to investigate. Little things added up to big things. Now Nalas thought about the palace and the queen's defense in a way he never had before.
It wasn't the same, having been deputy Lord Commander. It was simply impossible to do it all, to oversee both the army and the queen's security, until you stood right there and had to do it.
He wasn't even sure, were another Nalas presented to him now, if he would take him on as deputy. His past self of only a month ago seemed inconceivably ignorant.
These days his mind was stretched in directions he didn't even know possible, as he tried to cover all the vulnerabilities he could imagine, roaming a mental map of rooms, doors, windows, hallways.
Tunnels. And Fates knew how many of those there were.
His purposeful strides brought him to the apartment. The guards opened the door so quickly that Nalas didn't need to slow. Inside, he shut it behind him with a bang.
"Good, you're both here." Pas stood from his chair and drew himself tall, as if at attention. Dirina's eyes went wide at Nalas's expression. "Pack. You leave in an hour. You're going to the house."
"What? No! We're to be married in two months, Nalas."
Nalas blinked. He had entirely forgotten that part. Too busy with all the other parts.
"Not a good time for a wedding, Diri." Especially if Dirina weren't here, which is where she would be very soon, but he could not phrase it quite so bluntly. "It's only a delay. Until winterfair. Give Amarta time to join us."
Give circumstances a chance to settle.
There was not yet a letter from Amarta to confirm that she was coming to Yarpin for the wedding at all, which, to Nalas's mind, implied that she was not. But that was best left unsaid, even if it were obvious that Dirina quietly ached from the same conclusion.
Nalas took her hands, drew her close, resisting the temptation to kiss her. "You are my world, Diri. Without you, I am lost. With all that has happened, my honor may be injured, but you both are well, thank the Fates, and I will see to it that you stay that way."
Dirina made a sound, the beginnings of objection. Nalas kissed her, quickly, then pulled back.
"Diri, I will ask you, and I hope you say yes. But then, if you say no, I will not ask."
She pulled her hands from his. "Nalas, you can't mean what I think you—"
"Mama." Pas took her hand, gripped it. "Mama, I think we should do what he says."
Nalas put a hand on the boy's head gratefully.
Dirina shook her head, opened her mouth to speak. Nalas knew what she was about to say, could sketch the argument easily enough, but he didn't have time to take his part of the script. Too much else waited on him, and he could not focus on it if the most vulnerable parts of himself—Dirina and Pas—were in the same palace as the queen he was oath-and duty-bound to protect, along with whatever threats were coming.
"Pack," he said, cutting her off rather more sharply than he intended. "Please," he added, hoping to soften it.
He sighed at the hurt in her eyes, groping for a hardening heart so that he could do what he must to protect them both.
He looked them over, trying to see them as others might. Dirina's hair could hide easily in a scullery's headwrap. A maid's outfit wouldn't be hard to come by. A child's—perhaps less so.
"Pas, do you still have those clothes you wore before, when you were playing? When you were hiding?"
"Yes, da."
"Good lad. Get them on. I'm sorry, Dirina. I will see you soon."
Whenever that was. He left, shutting the door behind. To the senior guard in the hallway, he said, "Best of your numbers here. Get a maid's outfit on her. Then get them both out to where we discussed, but tell no one else. You have one bell."
"Yes, Lord Commander."
It was still a shock to be addressed with Innel's title.
Where do I look for these plots, that you knew about? Damn you, where?
As Nalas strode to his next urgent meeting, he passed hallway windows that revealed a glimpse of execution square, where still scattered across the gritty stones were the ashes of a hung, handless, and footless man.
Nalas's gaze returned to his own feet as they landed hard on the tile floor.
Was he himself blameless in all this? What had been wrong with him, these last few years, that he had been so complacent? How many chances had he been presented with to ask Innel questions, when his commander hinted at a secret, or gave a mysterious command?
Hundreds and hundreds. Nalas could have asked. Could have demanded to know. But he hadn't.
Why not?
Because Innel had been confident and easy to defer to. He was clever. Fast. He was Cohort.
Or maybe the truth was that Nalas hadn't wanted to take the risks that Innel was so willing to take, that a vein of cowardice ran through him.
Protect my queen and child at all costs.
"I will," Nalas promised.
As he trotted down the stairs that led outside to the garrison, memory again served up the hooded, tied Innel in his last moments, being led across the square toward the simple gallows that would end his life.
Nalas shook his head. Even then, he had looked wretched. Slumped and stumbling and not much at all like the man Nalas had known.