Stars and soil, p.31
Stars and Soil, page 31
“Standard royal affairs; no clear heir, uncles, aunts, cousins, all enemies. I honestly could not tell you anymore. It has gotten so convoluted, and now some of them have their own militias,” the ambassador says. “And every faction is vying for our alliance. All of them promise that when they take the throne, they will reward us for our support in their claim. We are very thankful that Princess Eleanor could arrange our safe return home. I suppose this is what I signed up for, but…” He throws up his hands.
“Sometimes we sign up for jobs and yet resent the responsibilities that come with them.”
Lady Iomaire puts her hand on Caitlin’s. “I hope you know how truly I am grateful you have helped my sister. I believe there is someone else I need to speak to,” she says. “No one should keep Princess Eleanor waiting.”
“I understand,” Caitlin says.
“Thank you for this conversation. I hope to see more of you.”
Caitlin sits back in her chair, weary and tired, and gestures for a servant to refill her goblet.
Her exhaustion fades away as she spots Arlina entering the garden, Lady Dontaue by her side. Arlina fidgets with a bracelet on her wrist while Lady Dontaue chatters beside her, the spaniel running circles between the pair. The duke guides Arlina towards a secluded corner where Lady Clare and Ambassador Cariveau are engrossed in conversation. Arlina takes a few steps back when Lady Clare says something to her, but as she excuses herself and turns away to escape, Cian catches her arm and pulls her back into the circle. Pulling away from Cian, Arlina holds up her hands and dashes away. Lady Dontaue whips around and scolds her nephew before he storms off, too, leaving the party without saying another word.
Nightmares haunt her: her friends on the gallows, Diarmuid on a pyre, her fathers on the chopping block. She cannot stay in her rooms where these terrors join her in bed, so she races down the hall, not paying attention to where she’s going. Not caring where she’s going, just as long as she gets away. She remembers what Caibre says. She remembers the way that Father Nael sneers at her, the way Father Ljósa hunted her. All of these thoughts racing through her mind faster than she can run. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. She’d done everything right, everything that was asked of her.
She takes another corner and realizes she’s at the garden entrance. It’s raining and dark, and clouds obscure the moon. She’s only wearing a thin shift, but she does not care. If she cannot feel anything at all, the cold cannot touch her.
She wanders past the fountain where Cian had proposed to her. She wanders around the lilac grove, remembering when she’d got caught in the rain with Arlina. She thinks about the first time she wandered this garden, Cian trying not-so-subtly to woo her, and she too-subtly trying to put him off.
Her racing thoughts halt when she hears other voices. She creeps away from them, not wanting her solitude and silence to be broken. Two voices; she recognizes one of them as the silky voice of Lady Emeire. But tonight, it is full of steel, her cheery cadence chilled.
“This will hurt a little bit,” the other voice tells her.
“Just do it.”
There is something in the air, something that shouldn’t be there. Something that doesn’t belong here. Something she recognizes only because she lived with it for seven years and knows it intimately. The sting of magic as an Ástfríður weaves metal.
Lady Emeire muffles a scream and then another. Caitlin takes a step toward the sound, confused. Ástfríður are not supposed to use their magic to harm others; it is a magic of beauty, not destruction. And it is a magic they are not supposed to use around anyone not of the Veil; their most closely guarded secret, more valuable than anything else they protect on their isles.
“You accept the terms.”
Lady Emeire hisses. “Yes.”
“You have one year to provide full payment. If not…”
Lady Emeire stifles another scream. “I know.”
“Are you sure this is worth it? We could just kill them for you. It would be less expensive.”
“But more suspicious.”
“We do not mess up. There would be no suspicion.”
“I believe your boss said something to the effect when I first contacted them. But this is how I want it done.”
“You want them to know it was you, don’t you?”
“Guilty as charged,” Emeire says, winded. “I want to watch it happen. Slowly. Painfully. I want to watch them on their deathbed, look them in the eye, and tell them that it was me.”
“You are a cruel woman.”
“Says the assassin that just turned my blood against me.”
“That is business. I normally do not ask further questions, but please humor me. What have they done to earn such a brutal punishment?”
“Brutal? No, they are getting off easy. What they did to—when Caragh was—they are getting off easy. Let us leave it at that.”
“Very well. And you are sure you will be able to pay us the remainder?”
“More than sure. My fathers are making sure I can. Ironic, isn’t it? Although, it would be easier if you were to also—”
“As we have discussed, even as queen, you will not have the funds to afford that.”
“If you say so…”
“Well, here is to the future queen. And the gold she will pay us.”
Caitlin knows not to expect to hear the Ástfríður assassin slip away. Those graceful people know how to walk without a sound and know how to swim without so much as a splash. They can waltz through corridors without a whisper and apparently kill without a murmur.
Caragh Gallagher. What does she have to do with this? Caitlin does not know much about the other Gallagher daughter, only that she decided to forgo court life and take up vows at a Temple of Shea. As far as Caitlin knows, she has not been seen since.
From the way Lady Emeire talks about her sister, Caitlin had thought that there was some sort of animosity between them. It seems it was just an act. She should have been a thespian.
She waits until she is certain she is alone again in the garden before slipping from her hiding spot. She doesn’t know if it’s better or worse, knowing the true reasons that Lady Emeire wants her out of the picture. She gazes at the garden walls, wondering if she could climb them and run away.
Surely, there are still friends of Brenna’s on the seas. Surely, she could find them. Surely, they would take her in. Surely, they would take her in, just as the people of Whick took in Brenna as one of their own. Caitlin chuckles at this thought.
In her many years as the heiress to Peddigree Trading, she had never outright been accused of dealing with pirates. Although, it was an open secret that she did. As an escapee from the crown, a fugitive, she would have no choice.
Still lost in her musings, she does not notice the shadowy figure lurking behind the hedge before it leaps in front of her and places its hand over her mouth. “I am a friend,” the shadowy figure says. Their voice sounds feminine but somehow distorted and strange. “I am not here to hurt you. I’m here to help. Do not turn around.”
Caitlin stiffens.
“You are in great danger,” the shadowy figure says.
Is it that obvious?
“But your friends have not abandoned you. Here.” The figure slips a velvet pouch into Caitlin’s hands.
“Who are these friends?” Caitlin asks. “And what do they want in return? What do they want in exchange?”
“You are pretty smart. I am sure you can figure that out on your own.”
“I must admit, I am not so sure how excited I am to be in debt to yet more people at court.”
“Do you have a choice?”
“I do not know.” She pockets the pouch. “Exactly how much danger do you believe I am in?”
“I would say perilous danger. More people than just Lady Emeire want you dead, including those with the ability and means to make it so.”
“Such as?”
“You already know.”
“Ah, Nael and Ljósa.”
“Do not lose faith. The stars still favor you.”
Caitlin hears the figure leave, not daring to open the pouch until she is sure she is alone again. A crescent moon hairpin and a short missive. “When you decide you need assistance, wear this in the morning, and in the evening, wait in your rooms. The stars shall shine brightly upon you.”
“When I need assistance? More like when I am so desperate I have no other choice,” she says.
“Your Majesty, I would like to request leave from your service formally,” Lady Emeire says. The request does not come as a surprise to Caitlin. In fact, after what she has learned, it surprises her that it did not happen sooner. “I need to focus on my family affairs. My fathers are growing old, and I am the only one who can help them.”
“Well,” Caitlin says, standing up from her desk. “I would like to think that your fathers are not so old that they are close to infirmity and death. However, I understand where you are coming from, and besides, Lady Ronai will return home soon. I will not be short on attendants.”
Lady Emeire curtsies, her unbound strawberry blonde hair obscuring her heart-shaped face. Caitlin knows that behind that sheet of hair lies a wicked grin. “Your Majesty is most kind, thank you. It has been an honor serving you.”
“If you should ever like to enter my service again, you need only ask. But if you would do me just one more service, please attend dinner with me and the rest of my attendants.”
Lady Emeire rises to her feet again, taking a sharp breath, clutching her chest before collapsing.
“Lady Emeire, are you unwell? Should I fetch my physician?” Caitlin rushes to the other side of the desk and places an arm around Lady Emeire. A shock runs through her body, the familiar sting of Ástfríður magic. What had Emeire said to the assassin? You turned my blood against me. Can the Ástfríður control even the iron in blood?
“I am fine, your Majesty. Thank you for your concern. I think I just have a cold.”
“I truly do not mind fetching a doctor for you.”
The door to Caitlin’s study opens, and Lady Muiris peers inside. “Your Majesty, we are ready—Emeire! Oh my gosh,” the marquess says and rushes over.
After inhaling deeply, Lady Emeire stands tall again. “I am fine, truly.”
Lady Muiris purses her lips. “You should rest nonetheless.”
Lady Emeire shakes her head. “It is time for dinner, and you said that the other ladies were ready, correct? Then let us take our queen to dinner.” Lady Emeire laces her hands in front of her and walks, head held high, out of the study.
The ladies make their way to the Great Hall, arriving to find many courtiers mingling while waiting for the servants to bring up the meats. Caitlin scans the hall for any sign of Lady Arlina. Once again, her father had called her away on urgent business the night before, and Caitlin cannot contain her worry.
“Caitlin,” Daya says, approaching Caitlin. “You are looking well today.” There are bags underneath the eyes of both princesses, and Eleanor does not look like she has slept for a week. Daya’s sparkling amber eyes are dull, and her gold-flecked skin lacks its usual glow.
Caitlin bites back the obvious reply. “It is good to see you. May I join you tonight?”
“Of course,” Daya says, leading Caitlin and her ladies to the princesses’ table, where they join the Duke of Dontaue, the Duchess of Hern, her daughter Lady Elwen, and Lady Clare.
“You missed an interesting meeting yesterday,” Lady Clare says.
“We did not attend for a reason,” Eleanor says. “And I would like to enjoy my meal.”
“We have already been filled in,” Lady Hern says.
“Yes, Nait already told me everything. Can we please eat without politics?” Lady Elwen says, tossing her long pale blonde hair—a trait shared by all in the Royal Fola family—over her shoulders, her translucent blue eyes betraying the storm brewing inside of her.
“I have not heard,” Lady Emeire says. “What is going on?”
“Well, it appears Cian is leaning towards war with Garcelon.”
“It is ridiculous,” Lady Dontaue says. “He is being influenced by all of those young lords who just see Garcelon as potential lands they can be granted.”
“It is Elwee,” Lady Hern says. “Always the one leading that pack of warmongers.”
“They’ve even tried to recruit my husband!” Lady Elwen says.
“What! No! They wouldn’t! Why?” Lady Emeire says, leaning forward.
“Please, let’s just leave it. You can gossip about it later, Elwen.” Eleanor motions for someone to bring her a drink.
Caitlin fidgets with the hem of her sleeve, still scanning the crowd for any sign of Arlina. Or any sign of her husband, for that matter. Her stomach lurches, and suddenly, food seems like a terrible idea.
“Looking for someone?” Lady Care asks. “If you were looking for your husband, I heard he is dining privately tonight. Did he not tell you?”
“No, I was looking for someone else.” Caitlin smiles. “Although I just remembered that I have some business that I forgot to attend to, and I must take my leave.”
“Caitlin, please stay,” Eleanor says, eyes full of worry. “Whatever it is, we can help you with it later. Please join us.” Eleanor is on the verge of crying, and Caitlin desperately wants to stay, if only to be near Eleanor and Daya. But she cannot stand to be around Lady Clare right now, and she has a terrible feeling that something is going on with Cian.
“Tomorrow, I promise.” Without another word, she leaves the hall and makes her way to the king’s chambers. She ignores the guards as they try to stop her, pushing past them until she finds herself at the doors to his private bedchambers. She grabs the handle but freezes as she hears a woman sighing in pleasure and Cian grunting.
She knows that sigh; she knows it because she has been the cause of it before. She backs away from the door one slow step at a time until she can no longer stand to hear another sound, turns on her heels, and flees.
She has not seen the king for two weeks. And yet she’s still sitting beside him, a large crown sitting on her head, wearing a dress of purple velvet lined with cloth of gold. She looks every bit like the queen that people claim that she still is. But she does not know what is happening; one of Cian’s attendants had arrived early in the morning to tell her she was needed for a formal event and to be in the throne room before noon.
Cian does not acknowledge her even once, does not take her hand when they are seated, and does not look her way as the herald announces their names. She does what she does best: wave and meet the eyes of every person in the crowd, one by one. She does not show the slightest bit of weakness or fear.
“You may admit him,” Cian says.
The guards open the grand doors to the audience chamber and lead an older gentleman, wiry and tall, into the room. He holds his head high as he approaches, wearing garments that would have suited him finely thirty years ago and clutching a stack of papers under his elbow.
Myles. He reaches the edge of the dais and bows deeply. “Your Majesties. King Cian, Queen Gráinne. I am honored that you’ve agreed to speak with me.”
The king merely nods, and Myles wrings his hands behind his back. Although he holds himself proudly, Caitlin notices the slight twitch in his lower lip each time he breathes in.
“I petition on behalf of the people for better conditions in the kingdom.”
“I am listening,” the king says.
“Many of your subjects are poor, precariously on the edge of hunger and starvation each day. Threatened with the prospect of homelessness. Many are dying in the factories from poor conditions and overwork. The schools are not well funded. Many are forced to go without health care and die from preventable diseases.”
To her left, Lady Clar snickers.
“I have heard these complaints before,” Cian says. “I have read about it in these packets distributed by these traitorous so-called revolutionaries. Are you affiliated with them? Are you here on their behalf?”
“Yes and no, Your Majesty. I was affiliated with them. But their tactics grew violent, and I believe we are better served by petitioning respectfully, especially since you took the throne, your Majesty. You and Queen Gráinne are the most compassionate rulers Fayn has had. I beg that you consider reforming the monarchy and creating a council of commoners to weigh in on matters and advise you, just as your council of nobles does. I do not want to be your enemy like others in the Red Front might want to be; I want to work with you.”
Caitlin blanches, her stomach dropping.
“Red Front?” Cian asks, putting his thumb under his chin. “Red Front… So, you have a name?”
Myles gulps.
“Interesting,” Cian says.
“Your Majesty… I did not think it would go so far. I thought we were all loyal subjects, merely wanting to do our part as good citizens and provide honest feedback and counsel. Give you the knowledge that you need to rule successfully.”
Caitlin’s eyes widen in horror as she feels the contents of her stomach rising, threatening to spill out. How long had Miles viewed it that way? Or was he spewing this bullshit now to save his neck? She knew that he and others in the Red Front hoped that they could ask respectfully enough for rights. She never thought that one of them would betray them in such a capacity.
“So, you disagree with their methods but not their opinions?”
Myles hesitates.
“And yet you partook in those methods until now. These violent tactics of theirs have been going on for several years now. And yet you stayed.” The king speaks with an almost disinterested calmness.
“I thought I could talk sense into them. They are young and naïve, and I thought… Well, when you took the throne, I thought that we should again petition directly. And I was right; you agreed to listen!” Sweat buds on Myles’ forehead, and he shifts his weight from side to side, one hand rubbing the back of the other. “I thought I could guide them toward more appropriate methods. Here, your Majesty. I have written a proposal for how the council of commoners would function and advise you.” He holds out the papers, lower lip still quivering. A guard takes the papers, and Myles collapses to the floor in a gesture of thanks.
