The Twelve Kingdoms Page 5

  He said it with such blandness for the understatement, I nearly snorted. The paintings of my sisters and me had been done some years ago, and the artist had taken pains to exaggerate what little loveliness I possessed.

  “I shall have him apologize formally, Your Highness, and will personally ensure you are not insulted again.”

  “Addressing me as ‘Your Highness’ can become cumbersome. You may call me Princess Ursula.”

  “The former has two fewer syllables than the latter.” His face did not move from its stern lines, but I received the distinct impression of amusement from him—along with the recognition that he had surprised me indeed. He had to know that no one expected a man who looked like the side of a cliff to be articulate or clever.

  “As you wish—either is appropriate,” I replied, deliberately casting a bored-seeming eye over the assembly as I lent half an ear to Uorsin’s conversation. Laurenne chewed on an old bone, ever unhappy with the crop tithes. Privately I didn’t blame Aerron for their concerns. The southern drought continued, expanding the desert by leagues each year, eating into the fertile farmland. They weren’t the only ones struggling to produce, however, and we needed every grain they owed and then some. From the tenor of her complaints, however, it sounded as if Uorsin had recently increased the tithe, which seemed most ill-advised.

  “No dispensation for a less formal accolade in conversation, then, Your Highness? What do your men call you?”

  I turned and met his eye, allowed a slight smile. “Captain.”

  He laughed, as resonant and booming as his voice. “Touché, Captain.”

  “Are we fencing, then?”

  “I witnessed your practice today, as you know, Your Highness. It would be interesting indeed to match blades with you.”

  “And yet we are allies, it seems, so such a scenario is unlikely to occur.”

  “You do not spar?”

  “Rarely. Only to teach.” Only with my Hawks. “Are you asking for lessons, Captain Harlan of the Vervaldr?”

  He grinned, and it belatedly occurred to me that the remark, which I’d intended as mildly insulting, had possibly sounded salacious.

  “I enjoyed the display this afternoon and would be delighted for you to show me more.” He leaned in as he spoke, dropping his voice to a soft rumble. I refused to look away, much as I wished to. Amelia would have had a charming quip to sweetly set him back on his heels. Andi wouldn’t have gotten into the conversation in the first place. I settled for a steely glare. “Though you are equally beautiful this evening, Your Highness,” he continued when I did not answer. “The gown and jewels become you. You exceed your portrait in every way and make an impressive Heir to the High Throne.”

  “Drumming up business for the future?” I inquired, using the excuse of taking up my wine goblet to tear my gaze away.

  From the corner of my eye, I saw him refill his goblet and drink from it. He let the silence stretch a beat too long for courtesy. “Do you object to my profession, Your Highness?”

  “On principle? Yes, I do. Loyalty should be earned, not purchased.”

  “Purchased loyalty is the only kind you can depend on.”

  “Until a better offer comes along.”

  “Isn’t it the same, Your Highness, with your version of loyalty?”

  “My version, Captain?”

  “Yes. Loyalty simply means adherence to the law. In a contractual arrangement, the law is far more precise than in one governed by emotion.”

  “But emotion can’t be bought.”

  “Aha—but it can be swayed. You imagine that more money would buy my loyalty, which it would not, by the way, as that’s a serious ethical breech within my profession. With emotion, the next great orator, the more sympathetic cause, the wrenching tale of the martyr—all of these can redirect loyalty in a flash. And with no ethical prohibitions against it—after all, how can you deny a shining truth?—then the emotional contract is forfeit.”

  “And nothing trumps your contractual agreements?”

  Something flickered in his gaze. “I wouldn’t say ‘nothing.’ ”

  “Then what could—”

  “Do not let that one draw you into a debate, Daughter.” Uorsin set a heavy hand on my shoulder and Ambassador Laurenne strode away, anger in the line of her back. I’d missed the rest of their conversation, distracted by the Dasnarian. Though I would no doubt hear it from her directly. Multiple times. “He is as nimble with an argument as he is with a blade.”

  “Surely he is no match for you, my father and King.”

  He snorted but looked pleased. Then his gaze sharpened, hardened with hot fury, flicking from the earrings to the necklace to the bracelet. “Where did you get those?”

  The accusation thudded into my gut and set my heart to racing. Forcing myself not to cringe away, I hardened my aching spine. “I’ve had them all along. It seemed appropriate to wear them tonight.”

  His face flushed scarlet, the metal of the wine goblet bending in the clutch of his fist. “They are witch’s jewels.”

  I scrambled for a reply. But a shout and a blast of music grabbed his attention. With a series of calls like animals and birds, a group of young men tumbled across the floor. They wore costumes made of silk scarves, some reminiscent of feathers, others scales—all vivid colors not of any nature I knew. Their somersaulting leaps resolved them into a line and they bowed to us, to Uorsin and me evenly, executing the maneuver with an unusual flourish.

  The youngest spun into a whirl and ended up directly before me. Beneath the table and before I’d known it, I’d drawn my dagger, the adrenaline shock ratcheting up the high alert triggered by angering my father. The lad, with hair so fair it gleamed nearly white, smiled angelically and presented me with a flower, one of Glorianna’s pink roses.

  I managed to take it, after sheathing the blade without anyone noticing.

  No one except for the Dasnarian captain.

  He said nothing, but he refilled my wine goblet, sliding it toward me. “A traditional gesture,” he said, as the young man impressively reversed the spin that had brought him to me. “Our acrobats study the art to improve flexibility and speed—not for assassination.”

  Beside me, Uorsin had sat back to observe the show, clapping his hands as if nothing had transpired between us. I knew the confrontation was only postponed, and possibly would be worse for it. Stupid, stupid, stupid. I should have known he’d hate the sight of Salena’s jewels. I had known it. That was why I’d kept them hidden away all these years. How had I lost sight of such basic common sense? I stared ahead blindly, trying to summon Danu’s centering mantra, struggling not to show how my breath wanted to shudder in and out of my strained lungs, how cold sweat dripped down my spine.

  The goblet nudged against my hand, which was curled around the posy, crushing the stem.

  “Drink, Your Highness. ’Tis but a fragile blossom that’s done you no harm. It was intended as a pleasure to you.”

  I stared at the Dasnarian, feeling somewhat wild, desperate to leave the table and my father’s presence, knowing I could not. Wishing that Amelia would appear to distract and appease him. Or that Andi would be on the other side of him, rolling her eyes. Captain Harlan returned my gaze steadily, calming somehow, something of sympathy in it. His eyes were not blue like those of the others, but a very light gray.

  Very nearly I told him to save his pity. But that would be admitting there was a reason to feel sorry for me. Instead I took the goblet and drank, fortifying myself for later.

  The feast lasted several hours, with course after course arriving once the acrobats finished. Madeline had outdone herself. I tasted none of it, using up every ounce of self-control to keep from crumbling. No matter how many years intervened, no matter how accustomed to command under dire circumstances I became, in the face of my father’s displeasure I somehow always reverted to my five-year-old self, as brittle as the fragile toy teacups.

  “Attend me, Daughter.” Uorsin delivered the command
at last, heaving himself up from the table. Captain Harlan came to his feet with remarkable agility, holding my chair as I arose. I ignored the gesture, especially when Uorsin made a sound of disgust. His son would not have elicited such chivalry.

  “Your Highness.” The Dasnarian touched my sleeve as I passed him, his gaze serious. “Good luck.”

  He said it as one warrior might to another, as she headed into battle, taking me aback. With a solemn nod, he lifted one hand, tipping two fingers back against his forehead, much as he’d done with the flat of the blade that afternoon.

  “Good night,” I told him. And I strode away as quickly as I could, to face my father.

  He went for his private rooms, naturally, sending his attendants scattering so we would be alone. To my knowledge, neither Andi nor Amelia had been inside them. I had gone to lengths to prevent that. Normally he conducted family conversations in his private study.

  With me, however, it had always been his bedchamber. An intimacy he shared with very few.

  Unlike mine, Uorsin’s private chambers were not divided into smaller spaces. Located in the dead center of the castle, the room had no windows and was sealed with three sets of doors. The stone walls, an arm’s length thick, allowed no sound through. Once closed, the room became as impregnable as any prison.

  The King’s final fortress.

  “So.” He poured wine for us both. A picture of careless indolence. He handed me a goblet, face weary as he studied mine. “Speak to me truly, Daughter. Do you challenge me for the throne? Wearing the Heir’s Circlet? Flaunting the queen’s jewels in my face? Must I look for betrayal from even you?”

  The dredging sorrow in his voice made my heart ache. Few people knew him as I did, understood how lonely holding the High Throne could be. He might be difficult to deal with at times, but he carried a heavy burden. He was everything I aspired to be, my King, my father, my hero. I loved him despite everything.

  “No, my King,” I answered, wanting to say more, knowing too many of the wrong words would only push him back into rage.

  “No? No, you did not wear the circlet or your mother’s witch jewels?”

  “I did not wear them as a challenge or to flaunt them.”

  He waited to see if I would say more. Another technique. When I was younger, the expectation, the stinging silence, would get to me and I would inevitably blurt out something more. More for him to chew on. Eventually I learned to hold my tongue and I held it with all my might.

  “I know why you wore them.” He clasped my shoulder, eyes sympathetic. “You fear for your position as heir. Your ambition is understandable. I’ve groomed you for this all your life. It bothers you that I intend to give it to my grandson instead.”

  “My King—the throne is yours to decide. I wish only to honor it and you.”

  “Yes.” He sat, heaving a sigh, and pulled off the crown, tossed it on the table, where it clattered against the wood. “It’s a heavy burden, that crown. Have you ever wondered why I never let them soften the sharp edges, make it more comfortable?”

  “You told me before it was so that you wouldn’t forget what you suffered to bring peace and so that the weight of rule would never become too comfortable.”

  Uorsin eyed me. “Did I say as much?” He huffed, sounding like the bear he was named for. “Then you understand why I must make this choice. I cannot have someone unworthy as my heir. Someone who is not strong and clearheaded enough to remain loyal.”

  “I am loyal.”

  “A pretty lie, I’m afraid. You’ve been conspiring. I see it all clearly. You plot with your sister and those demons she consorts with to overthrow me. That’s why you let her go, why you did not bring her back. Did you murder your nephew, too? Perhaps my beloved Amelia, as well? Do they even now lie moldering in the ground, in some pauper’s grave, victims of your overweening ambition?”

  Each accusation hit me in the gut, blows as painful as if they had been physical punches, all the worse that he spoke in such a coaxing, reasonable tone, the sorrow of betrayal in his visage. Each stole more of my breath, forcing my heart to labor.

  How had it come to this—and why hadn’t I seen it? It made a horrible sense, the way he put it together. The same way he’d struck at my sisters. An invidious logic I could not argue against. I had no proof otherwise. Other than that I would never be disloyal at all, let alone in such heinous ways.

  Purchased loyalty is the only kind you can depend on. Uorsin must believe that. That was why he’d sent me to Branli, on what I now clearly saw as a fool’s errand. There were no other routes into Annfwn not blockaded by Andi’s wall. But Uorsin thought I conspired with her, lied about the magical barrier. If I’d returned with a way in, or with my nephew, my loyalty would not be in doubt. I’d known I’d face this, but not to this extent. No wonder he’d contracted with the mercenaries.

  “You do not deny it, Daughter?” The question came so softly I almost didn’t catch it.

  “None of that is true.” I kept my voice as clear and emotionless as I could. Disaster if I wept. So weak. So female. Put the tears away. “I cannot prove my innocence, except by bringing Amelia and Astar to you, safe and unharmed.”

  “Something you could have done already, had you wished to.” He poured more wine, only for himself this time, and drank. “I thought I’d done my best by you, Ursula, my namesake. I taught you everything I knew. Perhaps I’ve been hard on you, but everything I’ve done, I did for the High Throne and the peace it stands for. I thought you understood that, believed in it, too. Now I have to wonder—do you want the throne so badly that you deprived me of another heir?”

  My spine ached and my gut churned far too much to risk drinking the wine. I had to find a way to get through to him. “My King. There is something you need to know before you judge me. A secret I dared not reveal before the court without your permission. May I tell you?”

  He sat silent as I fretted. Finally he groaned, as if in physical pain. “Tell me.”

  “Father, Amelia bore twins—a girl and a boy. At first we thought the girl did not survive the night, so I kept her birth a secret. The boy child was healthy and strong and the Twelve did not need the additional grief when there was so much to celebrate. Amelia, once recovered from childbirth, however, discovered that we had been fooled by a . . . simulacrum and that the girl is still alive, but taken by Tala rebels.”

  As I spoke the story, in the stale silence of Uorsin’s bedchamber, pinned under his penetrating gaze, it sounded more and more absurd to my own ears. I would not have believed myself. I wrestled down the desire to say more, to fill that deadly quiet, to beg my father to believe me. My nails, even as short as they were, dug sharp into my palms.

  “And how”—Uorsin’s voice dripped contempt—“did pretty little Ami see through a trick that fooled you?”

  I certainly could not say that it had been a magical vision from our mother. Or that Amelia’s ex-convict, Tala half-breed lover had assisted. Danu taught that the greatest strength came from taking responsibility on yourself. “I made a mistake,” I replied.

  He rose and came around the table. Not raging. Deadly quiet. “Look at me and say that again.”

  I raised my chin and looked my King and father in the eye. “I made a mistake.”

  His fist blasted my cheek with pain. A hard enough blow that my brain darkened a moment, swimming to stay alert. Fortunately it had been a fairly casual backhand. Far from the first he’d dealt me over the years. Not that it made them sting any less. Though no more than the sting of admitting my failure to him.

  “You made a mistake.”

  “Yes, my King.” I clenched my teeth against saying more, and in case he chose to strike me again. A censure I richly deserved. I saw my dead niece, but it was magic. Ami was beside herself with grief and I couldn’t say no to her. I stood by while she opened the tomb, saw for myself that the blanket held only twigs and leaves. I could not take her son from her, after all that, so I let her go into the Wild Lands with him
.

  Now a greater mistake stared me in the face. I should not have come back here, to face the King. This rage and betrayal went deeper than ever before. I cringed inside, where he couldn’t see, and hoped to survive to prove myself to him. My eye socket throbbed, but I dared not put a hand up to touch it.

  Uorsin stared at me, stark points of ice blue in bloodshot pools. “Where is Amelia now?”

  “She chases the kidnappers to retrieve her daughter.”

  “My pretty Amelia. You would have me believe that she’s raced off into the Wild Lands, burdened with an infant, to fight rebels all by herself.”

  I hardly would have believed it myself. But Ami had grown up in the last half a year. Hugh’s death had, instead of crushing her, polished her to a high sheen. She had a certain indomitability about her these days. A surety of purpose she’d lacked before. One I envied at this moment, as I wondered where my own had gone. Uorsin glowered, expecting an answer this time.

  “She took her personal guard with her, including an expert huntsman and tracker. I believe her to be well protected.”

  “Yet, you ask permission to go after her.”

  Would he let me go? “To ensure their safety, yes.” To prove myself to you.

  “A safety that did not concern you before this.”

  “I knew you would be expecting word. That your army remained poised to intercept Erich. I knew you needed to know, from me, that Astar was not in jeopardy of being taken by Erich’s forces.”

  “I think you’d say anything to have the throne for yourself.”

  Desperation gnawed at me. “Then disinherit me. Send me off in exile. Have me executed. The High Throne requires a worthy heir. If I don’t meet your measure”—I sucked in my stomach muscles to steel my breath so it would not waver—“then I don’t deserve to be your daughter.”

  “Empty words.” Uorsin stood, walked away, and emptied the flagon of wine into his goblet. “Have you more to explain why you abandoned your mission in Branli and somehow ended up at Windroven?”