“Now you blush?” Amusement enriched his voice. “A wanton woman under the moon’s light and come morning you blush and look away? Yes: at night, Beatrice, in the long small hours. Is it your reputation you fear for? You wouldn’t be the first woman to be named the prince’s whore. It may even boost your marriage prospects, if we part on amicable terms.”
“Marius…?” The question was poorly judged. Javier’s eyes darkened as he put his fingers against the hollow of her throat.
“Is it he you prefer, my lady Beatrice? Is the prince merely a feather in your girlish cap?”
“No,” Belinda breathed. She reached for the drip of power inside her, infusing her answer with its light, all the truth she could muster into the soft word. Belinda had seen jealousy in a hundred men, but wouldn’t have imagined that this man, a prince, would allow himself such a petty emotion. Her life might depend on defusing it. She parted her lips and swallowed tentatively against the pressure on her throat. She had not confessed to the prince her burgeoning ability to sense emotion and even thought; the moment to do so had come and gone, and she was no longer tangled in passion that washed even the clarity of stillness away. If Javier didn’t know of the faculty, he might fall prey to it. Belinda poured all the power she could reach into her whispered words, filling them with subtle adoration and trust. “Marius is a boy in his heart, my lord, no matter what his years. I prefer men.”
Javier’s fingers tightened, then loosened enough to let her swallow. The darkness in his eyes diminished, leaving them colorless in the filtered light through the cloak. Belinda tilted her head back, letting the weight of his hand press into her throat again. Submission, now that danger was past, only reinforced his position relative to hers. It could do her no harm.
“Marius should aim so high as a royal cast-off,” Javier said after a moment. “And I think I will not tire of you for some time, my little witch. You have much to learn.”
“You honour me,” Belinda whispered. Flat amusement shot through Javier’s gaze.
“Yes. I do. Enjoy it while it lasts, Beatrice. Nothing ever does.”
ROBERT, LORD DRAKE
11 September 1587 Khazan, capital of Khazar, north and east of Echon Irina, imperatrix of all Khazar, is a beautiful woman.
Not like Lorraine, whose striking features made her beautiful in her youth. Time has stripped that beauty, her long face falling with age. She might have found a way to move through her later years gracefully, but instead she fights every year as if it is her bitterest enemy, and that, too, has left marks.
Not like Sandalia, either, who has never been beautiful, only devastatingly pretty. She still holds the edge of youth that maintains loveliness, but in a few short years her figure will fail to a fondness for sweets, and her curves will turn to plump softness. It will look well on her, but it is not beauty.
No, Irina Durova will be beautiful when they lay her down in her grave. Time will not be able to take the elegant square bones of her face away, and her skin is of the quality to hold wrinkles tight around the corner of large dark eyes. She is in her forties now, and her hair is silvering. She lets it do so naturally, taking gravitas from aging; she does not believe youth is the only potent drug there is. Then again, she has true beauty to see her through the years.
It is more difficult to be angry at a beautiful woman than a plain one, but Robert is trying.
“I do not understand, Your Majesty.” It was a falsehood; he understood perfectly, as did Irina. “What does Essandia offer that Aulun can’t? Our fleet is better-trained, and a treaty with my queen is unique in its advantages. There can be no backdoor pressure to marry.” He stresses the last sentence, making it a clear reminder to those who know-in the audience chamber, that means himself and Irina-how much trouble Irina has faced on the marriage front lately, and how Aulunian resources slipped into Khazar to divest her of that problem.
“Aulun stands alone against Cordula,” Irina says, full of genuine-sounding sympathy. Her voice is as rich as her face and body: deep, for a woman, and warm. The imperatrix’s laughter is said to melt snow from the eaves, a gift of some renown in icy Khazar. Robert has never heard her laugh, nor seen snow melt through force of personality, but he likes the story. “We do not share Cordula’s faith, but we are cognizant of the dangers of rejecting it blatantly. My father recalled the Heretics’ Trials, Lord Drake. We are reluctant to draw attention to our own borders by making hasty treaties with Cordula’s enemy.”
Robert bows, a light and almost teasing action, to hide the grinding of his teeth. “Aulun is certain Khazar never makes hasty decisions, Your Majesty. Aulun would also like to remind you that while much of southern Echon is held in Ecumenic sway, the northerly states, like Aulun, have found their own spiritual paths to follow. An alliance with Aulun is not an alliance against Cordula.”
“We are certain that is a point worth remembering,” Irina says, and now there’s a tint of humour in her large eyes. “We are, after all, only a woman, and must heed the advice of the men around us.”
Robert nearly chokes: he knows this trick. It’s one of Lorraine’s favourites, and it makes him mad with exasperation.
And then suddenly, abruptly, he sees what he should have seen before: that Irina’s gown is the one Lorraine sent her twelve years earlier, in congratulations on Ivanova’s birth. It has been modified, made more fashionable, of course, but the jewel-encrusted fabric is the same, the cut still subtly Aulunian rather than the broader lines of Khazarian fashion.
He is too masterful a player to let his eyes widen, though irritation spills through him. He, of all people, should know that words spoken in political debate mean little, and Irina has given him answers in her dress and in her phrasing that few others would know to read. That he nearly missed them himself is an embarrassment, and he bows again now, in part to cover that embarrassment and in part because Irina has effectively dismissed him. “Aulun trusts your counselors will guide you well, Your Majesty. I hope we’ll speak again before I leave Khazan.”
Irina flickers her fingers, neither agreement nor disagreement, and Robert catches a smirk on a courtier’s face as he turns away. He allows thunderous frustration to darken his own features, playing to that smirk; playing to Aulun being stymied by Khazar, and he narrowly avoids stomping as he leaves the audience hall. His mockery of temper is thrown off by the time he leaves the palace, though there’s a hint of true anger simmering inside him. Irina took him by surprise, and he hates being off-balance.
“Dmitri!” Robert finds the hawk-nosed man in the stables, the scent of straw and manure rising up. The horses snort as he stalks by to catch Dmitri’s arm. Robert is a big man, his hands powerful, and Dmitri flinches. “Irina is making treaties with the Essandian prince, Dmitri. Don’t tell me you didn’t know.” He digs his fingers into the tender flesh of Dmitri’s inner arm, as if leaving a mark will earn him the answer he wants.
Dmitri’s mouth thins and he drops his gaze to the offending grip, then stares at Robert until Robert releases him. There is a note of grace, of chagrin, in the way Robert averts his eyes and offers apology. Dmitri, satisfied, takes a deliberate moment to straighten his sleeve, fussing like a man more fastidious than he normally is. Robert, still irritated, remains silent, waiting.
“A queen doesn’t always heed her advisers,” Dmitri finally says, as close to an admission of failure as Robert’s ever heard from him. “Her strength will be divided,” he adds in a grumble. “Her army will be split between Khazar, Essandia, and Aulun.”
“Or she’ll have Essandian and Aulunian ships alike and her own troops here to put on them and send where she wants. Dammit, Dmitri, you should have told me. You should have stopped it. She hints at favouring Aulun, but I want her to have no choice. Warp the missives from Essandia. Make it seem as though Rodrigo seeks her hand along with her troops.”
“A dangerous game,” Dmitri murmurs. “What if she accepts?”
“She wouldn’t have come to Aulun about Gregori if she were of a mind to marry. These three queens hold a unique place in Echon’s history. So many women have never held such power simultaneously, Dmitri. None of them are willing to cede it. She’ll reject a marriage offer, or dance around it like Rodrigo and Lorraine have done for twenty years.” He exhales, explosive sound, and the line of horses down the stables responds in kind, shaking themselves, stomping feet, huffing and puffing. “Do you know where Seolfor is?”
“I don’t” is Dmitri’s eventual answer. “Are you losing control, Robert?” There’s interest in his eyes, flashing,
