you’ve hidden one all these years?”
“I’m beginning to consider claiming that,” Sandalia says, though she’s smiling. “If you don’t reach your point.”
Javier is avoiding doing just that, and knows it. He takes a sip of wine-a small sip, because he wants a large one-and says, “The Lady Irvine is Lanyarchan nobility, however minor.”
Sandalia takes it where he wants her to, dark eyes widening momentarily. “You would propose marrying her to strengthen your claim to the Lanyarchan throne? Javier-”
“I would propose engaging myself to her to see if fear can shake Lorraine Walter out of her royal seat,” Javier corrects. “If we can push her to invasion or war, Mother, then Lanyarch can call on Cordula for help. We all only seek an excuse.” He falls silent a moment, caught by childhood schoolings, and beneath his breath murmurs, “How many centuries is it since Aulun held Gallin’s throne in any meaningful way, or since Gallin has reigned with true power over Aulun? Two? More? And still we rattle back and forth at one another like angry children, each of us certain the other has stolen our toys. Hatred runs old and deep, the reasons long forgot.”
His mother’s gaze goes cool. “It’s only a lifetime since Aulun splintered from the Church, and in that time her Reformation has spread to Echon’s northern states. Our reasons are fresh, Javier, and born of a hope to see all the world safe in the arms of Christ, not led astray by weakness of flesh and mind. If you can’t remember that now, how can I trust you with a war for a throne?”
Not so very long ago, Javier realises, that lecture would have sent his head ducking down and apologies to his lips. Now he lifts his eyes to Sandalia’s with neither fear nor regret, and knows with certainty and a small shock of joy that Beatrice has helped him come this far. “The Church is an excuse, Mother, and if you can’t admit it to yourself, at least I can. The wherefores of this plot run far deeper than Lorraine’s father and his cuckholding ways. But let it be,” he adds, smoothing away the disagreement with a gesture. “What matters is that if an engagement to Irvine can shake the Red Queen’s grasp on Aulun, her reign may fall beneath the combined might of Gallin’s army and Essandia’s navy.”
Sandalia is silent for long moments before she nods and admits, “Clever. It’s a clever thought. But how much of it is born of sentiment, Javier?”
He will not allow himself a guilty wince. Instead he shrugs, loose and casual, hoping the cost of that doesn’t show. “Some. I like her. But she’s not meant to be a queen, Mother, and I know that. I’ll need to do better than her to hold even Gallin’s throne, much less Aulun’s.”
“There’s Irina’s daughter,” Sandalia says thoughtfully. Javier’s eyebrows wrinkle until his head hurts.
“She’s fourteen.”
“As was I the first time I was wed,” Sandalia reminds him acerbically. “Besides, if you’re to do this she’ll be more than old enough by the time you’re able to break with Irvine and still hold two thrones.” To his astonishment, he realises she’s genuinely considering his proposal, and he wonders if it’s not as rash as he first conceived. “For God’s sake, Javier, whatever you do, don’t get her pregnant.”
“Ivanova?” he asks lightly. “I’m overwhelmed by your belief in my manhood, Mother, but I’m afraid it won’t reach all the way to Khazar by itself.”
Sandalia gives him a sharp look that makes the jape worthwhile. “Irvine no more wants a pregnancy than I do. Don’t worry, Mother.” An impulse hits him, though: what would their child be like? Heir to witchpower from both parents, trained in it since birth? Echon might never have imagined such power in such a ruler.
Sandalia interrupts his musings with a snort that belies her delicate prettiness. “The only reason a woman bedding a prince hopes to not become pregnant is if she fears for her bastard’s life when a legitimate heir comes along. Ask her to marry you and she’ll lose that concern, Javier, so for God’s sake, watch yourself. Make sure she watches herself.”
He finds himself holding his breath, as if he’s a child again. “Does that mean you approve?”
“It has merit,” Sandalia allows. “It would have more if your Beatrice were of more significant rank, but the tie to Lanyarch…” Her expression turns sour, a sure indicator that she wishes she’d thought of the ploy herself. “It’s well thought out. Making Lorraine nervous is an entertaining way to pass the winter, if nothing else.”
“And come spring,” Javier says lowly. Sandalia nods, slow and thoughtful.
“Come spring,” she agrees. “Come spring.”
BELINDA PRIMROSE / BEATRICE IRVINE
9 November 1587 Lutetia “Whisper seditious promises in my ear, Irvine.” Asselin caught Belinda on her own street, dragging her toward evening-made shadows between houses. She protested, one sharp startled sound, and he curled a lip, crowding her into darkness roughly enough to make passersby studiously look away. Belinda put her hands against his chest, thrust him back, and for a moment imagined him falling many feet to a snow- covered courtyard below. There were damp patches of white stuck to the Lutetian streets even now, enough to make the momentary vision seem real, memory of a lifetime past overlaying the world in which she now lived. Irritation flashed through Asselin’s hazel eyes as Belinda fixed him with a steady gaze.
“You will behave with decorum, Lord Asselin. Javier’s favour still rests with me. He won’t take lightly hearing you’ve manhandled me.”
“Do you think that?” Sacha sneered. “You’re a tool to be used, Irvine, nothing more, and I’ll have my use of you as much as he will.” He caught her upper arm, pulling her close with a hard grip. “You’ve gotten no movement from him. Nothing. No whisper of ambition. What good are you if spreading your legs doesn’t make him jump to serve you?”
“Why the hurry, Asselin?” Belinda breathed the question, making it light and mocking. She sympathized with Sacha’s impatience, eager for movement herself, but her life had taught her patience. The plot to create or kill a king was not a thing to happen swiftly in its beginning stages. Only when a certain critical momentum was reached did things begin to move at inevitable, unstoppable speed. They would all, in time, fall prey to the trap Belinda felt more and more certain was hers to build, a dangerous game to keep her own queen mother unchallenged on the Aulunian throne. “You’re young. Javier is young. Surely you’ve no personal stake in making the prince a king so quickly, have you? Is it your own desire agitating for Ecumenic domination in Aulun again, or does someone feed your ambition and your pocket? Does someone hunger for results and heap recriminations upon your head and your bank because they are not swift enough in arriving?”
For all of Asselin’s skill in dissembling, that talent could not deny the touch of his hand against her arm or Belinda’s twist of witchpower, seeking his thoughts through that touch.
Guilt and anger surged through the link, powerful enough to obscure words. His actions hid emotion beautifully, used the anger to bury guilt as he closed a powerful hand around Belinda’s throat. “Do not imagine I would hesitate to kill you for saying such things, Irvine. Javier is my prince and my loyalty is his. My impatience stems from a man in his prime dancing and dawdling on his mother’s weak will, when he should move forward and claim what is his under Cordula’s banner. Don’t think his favouritism will protect you from me if you fail to move him, or if you question my loyalty again.”
Belinda, incongruously, thought of the small dagger tucked at her spine, and opened her mouth to let go a shaking laugh that told Asselin she was cowed. Eyes averted, she swallowed nervously against the pressure on her throat and dared a tiny nod. The corsets beneath Eliza’s fashions were looser, shaped more like a woman’s natural form, only tightening to shelve the breasts against the low-cut necklines. There was no easy way, of course, to get to the dagger, not so long as she remained clothed, but stripped to her undergarments she could slip her fingers under the corset and free the blade. It had never been bloodied in battle, only in practise.
Someday, Belinda promised herself as she swallowed against the pressure on her throat, it would find Sacha Asselin’s heart’s blood.
“Forgive me, my lord. I spoke in jest, nothing more.” As her laughter could be read as supplication, the quaver in her voice could be interpreted as fear, not the hard delight of an oath made. Triumph rose in him, obscuring anger and guilt, and words whispered through the grip he held on her arm:-does not wish to wed a prince, but a king-
He released her with a spat curse, Belinda’s hand going to her throat as if she could massage breath back into her body, though eagerness for explanation behind the stolen thoughts overrode any discomfort she felt. Only one
