“Gabrielle,” Javier murmured with rue. “We are besieged in history and in the present, uncle. Ambitious women surround us.”
“And we make war in their honour.” Rodrigo flickered his hand, dismissing the women of whom he had just spoken so highly. Akilina held herself still a few seconds, disdain and insult evident in her carriage, and then Eliza sauntered by and offered an elbow, one beautiful woman squiring another. Javier watched them go with uncertainty curdling his stomach: they were not, he thought, friends, and the prospect of them becoming so unsettled him. When they were gone Rodrigo exhaled a noisy sigh and flung himself into a chair; Javier's tent was well-appointed, even if its front flaps were flung back to show him the straits and the navy nudging its way around them.
“How are you, nephew? Well-crowned, I see, and with the Pappas's blessing shining along with the crown.”
“My burden's become easier with his blessing.” Javier sat as well, his eyes fastening on the map once more. “I imagine myself this magic's master, and if I'm wrong it has at least not yet managed to overwhelm me again. I'll be the weapon you need me to be, Rodrigo. Don't worry.”
“Could I not worry for my nephew, instead of for his status as a tool of war?” Rodrigo's light voice betrayed strain.
Javier slid his gaze from the map to study the Essandian prince for a moment or two. “As well I might worry for you, who seem to have gotten a tool of war yourself. At least mine's not sharing my bed. Have you heard from the Pappas?”
Rodrigo's strain slipped away in a brief smile. “He wasn't pleased, but he can't undo this marriage without undoing the treaty that puts the Khazarian army at our back. Besides, now you're free of any possible marriage to Ivanova. You're a king, handsome, young-”
“Malleable,” Javier said.
Rodrigo tipped his head, agreeing with the conclusion, but aloud said, “But less so than our Cordulan father might think. It's a shame, though, that you're not married, Javier. An heir would be useful.” He glanced toward the open tent flaps, after Akilina and Eliza, then turned that look back on Javier, eyebrows elevated. “Unless…?”
Silver warning seized Javier's throat, cutting off the dismissal he might have made. Eliza's lack of womanly blood would set any politician against Javier marrying her, and that was a road he would not yet sever himself from. Instead he curled a corner of his mouth up; tilted his head as Rodrigo had done, and let his body tell a story that his words would not. Then he returned to the map, putting away the topic of succession to repeat, “We have the advantages. But will we win?”
“A storm follows us up the straits. It's a day, perhaps a day and a half behind; it blackened the horizon before we made the easterly turn. It will fill our sails and drive the Aulunian navy back, unless I miss my guess. They'll crowd against their own cliffs, frantic to hold their one choke point, and when we break through we'll have them in a wedge.” Rodrigo slapped his hands together, making Javier flinch. “They'll have soldiers on the cliffs to pour pitch and flaming arrows on us, and they'll drop stones to break our ships. We'll lose more in the mouth of the Taymes than in the twelve-mile of straits between us, but our navy is the larger. An arrowhead of our fastest and strongest ships will ride the tide into Alunaer's heart, and we'll take the fight to them.”
“There will be garrisons upon garrisons in the capital.” The worries were already familiar to Javier, as were the solutions: he echoed them in his thoughts as Rodrigo outlined them aloud, reassurances to them both. The Parnan navy, not as strong or new as the Essandian, had ships barely off the Aulunian coast both north and south of Alunaer, soldiers already ferrying to land. Reports of skirmishes came by pigeon, but Lorraine was concentrating her army in the capital city. So, too, would Javier have done, in her position: Alunaer represented Lorraine's beating heart, and should she let it fall her people would lose all faith. That was a price too dear to pay, and so the worst of the battle would be fought in the Aulunian capital.
And it would fall, crushed by a three-prong attack by an army far larger than what Lorraine could command.
On paper-on the map that continued to draw Javier's eye-it seemed as though they not only couldn't fail, but that devastation could be wrought within a day or two, that he might well stride through a burning city in a week's time and take the crown that his mother had intended for him.
He had never gone to war, but he knew the danger of dreaming it might be so terribly simple.
“Things will go wrong,” Rodrigo murmured. “Lives you will not want to lose will be lost. Resistance will go on for months, even years, until we have routed out all of those faithful to the Reformation and to the Walters. But we will prevail, Javier. We have the armada, we have the troops, and we have you, guided by God and granted the unearthly power to strike at Lorraine in a way she cannot imagine.”
“We've had no word of Belinda,” Javier said softly. “Nothing from our spies, nothing that says she's warned Lorraine against my magic. But dare we trust Lorraine has no knowledge at all of what I can do?”
“Perhaps she's dead after all. She might never have made it out of Sandalia's palace. Even if she did, you've proven she can't stand before you, and nothing else can hope to defeat our numbers and your gift. Not in the longer game.” Rodrigo pushed out of his chair, all long comfortable grace in a man whose age dictated he ought to be at home before a fire, waiting out the news of war while grandchildren bounced on his knee. “Sleep tonight, if you can, Javier. Take your woman to bed, and then sleep. You may not see another chance for days.”
Javier nodded, and Rodrigo strode away, leaving the young king of Gallin to once more study his map, and wonder what unforeseen thing would go wrong.
C.E. Murphy
The Pretender's Crown
BELINDA PRIMROSE
4 June 1588 † The Aulunian Straits
The sun rises red as blood over waters soon to be awash with it. Belinda Primrose is not a fool: she has not gone to battle on the sea. She could, if she must; her father taught her the sword, and her dancing master taught her the grace that stood her well in learning the blade. He would be horrified at the use his lessons had gone to. But she will not, today, make use of the rapier she wears; at least, she hopes not.
Because a storm is coming up the straits, black as hell on the horizon. It will fill the Essandian navy's sails and press them on to Aulun's shores; press them up the short cliff-lined distance between the straits and the palace at Alunaer's centre. Belinda has no doubt that this is what the generals and admirals of the encroaching army expect and hope for.
Any other day, they might be granted their desires. But this morning, Belinda Primrose is standing alone on a cliff-top, her hair bound so severely it looks short, and her breasts bound even more tightly: she is a man today, for the sake of making war. She wears pants, tall boots, a red coat; she might be any sentry, waiting for the first sign of conflict to be unleashed. A musket is held in one hand, loosely; Belinda does not like guns, though she understands their usefulness. A good general does not give up a weapon simply because he dislikes it.
The wind, always high on the cliffs, is coming up. It smells of seawater and gunpowder, and tastes of salt. Belinda quells the urge to fling herself into it: to trust its strength and hang above the cliff's edge, unfettered by the world's pull. She has seen soldiers try it, now and then, and has seen how the untrustworthy wind cuts out and sends men plummeting to their death. The impulse to fly is enticing, but the wish to live is stronger. There will be other ways to die today, and it is her purpose to make certain those ways are visited on her enemy.
The tide has changed in the minutes since she arrived on the crimson-lit cliffs. That will be the signal Javier's army is waiting for: water pulling toward Aulun's cliffs, not retreating from them. The first ships will be launching now, catching the storm's winds to drive themselves forward toward battle.
Aulun's small and aging fleet is already waiting in the straits. They're too distant to be seen, but the bindings that hold Belinda so tightly restrain only her body. Witchpower flows free in her mind, golden power strong enough to rival the bloody sunrise, and it is that magic which will tell her the ships are engaged, and that it's time to turn the storm.
