“Both good things, I suppose.” I paused. “Are you not going to lecture me about revenge? Tell me that after becoming Achleva’s queen, I should just let my grudge against the Tribunal go?”
“Dear me, no,” Simon said. “The Tribunal is an abomination. I can think of no greater legacy for a queen of two nations than to rid the world of that organization for good.”
I sat back, speechless.
For the first time in my life, I was looking forward to my wedding. “I’ve never thought of it that way.”
“It won’t be easy, mind you. And Achleva may not have the Tribunal to worry about, but we have our own troubles.” The corners of his mouth sagged, and I began to see those troubles etched in the creases framing his lips and eyes, easily mistaken for laugh lines. “I’m hoping that, while I’m here this week, I can look into some things that have been disconcerting me back home in Achleva.”
“What do you think you can discover in Renalt? Renaltans can’t even cross Achlev’s Wall without . . .” Trying to be delicate, I waved my fingers up and down. When his eyebrow shot up, I said, “You know. Burning to death?” Our histories were full of horrific illustrations of Renaltan armies dying in large swaths trying to breach Achlev’s Wall. Prompted by the writings of the Tribunal’s Founder, Cael, Renalt tried for three hundred years without success, until the marriage treaty allayed the aggression between our countries, if not the underlying enmity.
“Renaltans don’t have to cross our wall to influence what goes on behind it,” Simon said. “I want to figure out the reason for the sudden abundance of Renaltan coin in circulation with ours, merchants forging new trade deals with coastal Renaltan ports that would never have received them before . . . Hallet Graves, de Lena . . .”
I stiffened. “De Lena?”
“Do you know Toris de Lena?”
“He’s a Tribunal magistrate. I can hardly picture him welcoming Achlevan ships to his port unless it somehow furthered his ambitions.”
“Perhaps his ambitions include gaining influence in Achleva.”
A dreadful thought. I catalogued the information: Toris de Lena, magistrate, bearer of the Founder’s blood . . . making secret trade deals with Achleva? “Well, if you find out anything, let me know,” I said. Toris’s voice was ringing in my ears. Mabel Lawrence Doyle, you have been tried and found guilty by fair Tribunal for the distribution of illicit texts and have been condemned to die . . .
Maybe adding a bit of tarnish to Toris’s sterling reputation would be my parting gift to Renalt. If the truth was bad enough, it could cost him a place at the magistrates’ table. Or, even better—?it could gain him one in a cell. Or on the gallows stand.
Maybe this time Toris had put the rope around his own neck.
4
When I got back to my room following my time “in worship,” my maid, Emilie, was already there, sweeping up what looked like bits of broken glass. She had a round, rosy face and was probably a year or two younger than me, though she was just as tall. She’d been working for me for several weeks now, which was quite a long while, considering that I went through waiting maids like the dancing princesses of my childhood storybooks went through shoes: they rarely lasted more than a day. Occasionally I’d come across my former maids elsewhere on the grounds, mucking out horse stalls or emptying chamber pots or removing entrails from chickens in the kitchen yard. I’d march past them, head always high until I was out of sight. Sometimes I’d cry, knowing they preferred chamber pots and entrails to me, but only if no one was around to see.
“Begging your pardon, m’lady,” she said, hurrying to finish sweeping glass bits off the floor. “I’d hoped to have this done before you returned.”
“Let me see,” I said.
Reluctantly, she held out her dustpan. Amongst the pieces of glass was a large rock painted with ward symbols. It bore a single word: Malefica. An old word, most often interpreted nowadays to mean witch. I’d seen it a couple of times in the torn remnants of spell-book pages, or scribbled in archaic notes in the margins. In all those sparse mentions, however, it never felt like a description. It always seemed more like a name.
Apparently, someone thought the moniker suited me.
“I’ve already arranged to have the window replaced, m’lady,” Emilie said. “I’d hoped to at least have this cleaned up before you got back in, so you wouldn’t have to . . .”
“So I wouldn’t have to see it?” I frowned. “Have there been other things you’ve fixed up before I got to see them?”
She looked at me shyly from under her lashes.
“There have been?”
“I didn’t want to frighten you, m’lady. Just the work of pranksters and superstitious villagers. Nothing to be worried about, I’m sure.”
Emilie scurried to put the stone and shattered pieces of glass out of sight while I situated myself by the broken pane. My private inner room had a good view of the barracks and the stables, so I spotted Kellan easily. He was leading Falada, an exquisite white mare, across the yard to the round pen. I observed them wistfully. The Greythorne family and their horses were renowned, and Falada was a rare Empyrean, perfectly tempered and trained. Kellan had raised her himself from the time she was a foal. Watching them together, I found it easy to believe that the divine Empyrea would have taken such a form when she came to earth, as we’d been taught. There could be no nobler, more beautiful creature in existence.
I should have been glad that Kellan had a moment to get out and ride her before returning to duty for the banquet that evening, but I was jealous instead. As if sensing the brush of my thoughts against him, Kellan turned his head up to my open window, and, seeing me, he gave a salute. Then he mounted Falada and reined her away.
“What would you like to wear to the banquet, m’lady?” Emilie opened the wardrobe wide to let me inspect my options.
“You choose,” I told her, as I always told my waiting maids. The girl surveyed the dresses with enthusiasm, sweeping a gown of green satin from its hook after less than a minute of looking. I was surprised, seeing her holding it out for my approval, that it wasn’t black. The other waiting maids never chose anything but black.
“You don’t like it?”