The Queen's Bastard Part 17

"She isn't your usual type, Javier." Sandalia is watching her son, making him uncomfortable, though he doesn't dare let that show. He left Beatrice sleeping off the aftermath of s.e.x in his bedchambers hours ago, and he has been thinking, pacing, avoiding everyone ever since.

Even now he paces the confines of Sandalia's chambers, reaching for wine, nibbling on sweetmeats. He isn't hungry, but better to let his mother believe that's the problem than delve deeper. "She's pretty enough," Sandalia admits, "but you've always had an eye for the slender blondes." Amus.e.m.e.nt suffuses her words. He thinks of her as a happy woman, he realises. She is many things, of course-focused, intent, a queen-but in the end, to Javier, she is his mother, and she is happy. "Deliberately avoiding comparisons to your mother, I imagine. What draws you to her?"

Javier imagines, briefly, telling the truth. Daring to explain, as he has never dared, the witchpower that he thought was his burden alone. Daring to pool light in his palms and explain that his will is its source.

As always, since childhood, caution stays him. He believes, must believe, that his mother wouldn't condemn him as a monster, but while Sandalia is earthier than her brother Rodrigo, she's also a true Ec.u.menic queen, and he can't imagine making her believe that his abilities aren't the devil's tricks.

Especially when he doesn't believe it himself.

It's easier, now that he has Beatrice. Now that he knows he's not the only one gifted, or cursed, with the witchpower. He's continuously surprised that a woman should share his powers, but better a woman than a man. Beatrice's s.e.x gives him an easy excuse to spend time with her. Should he have discovered another man with such skills, the hours they'd spend together training would have all of Echon snickering in their sleeves at Sandalia's only heir. It's not a path Javier has any interest in taking, all the more so given how desire helps to focus the witchpower for use.

"She's useful, Mother" is what he allows himself to say. It's all he can allow himself to say, even if he were to leave the question of witchpower itself behind. The pain that sears through him at the thought of losing Beatrice takes his breath, and to confess to more than her use would have Sandalia remove her from his life permanently. "The night Marius brought her to meet us-"

"You're the only son of a royal house I know who means more than one person when he says us," Sandalia interrupts. Javier smiles because she expects him to and waits a moment to see if she's going to follow that familiar path of scolding before he goes on.

"That night she named me the true heir to Aulun," he says when it's clear he's been given a reprieve from that particular lecture. "Even a brunette catches my attention that way."

"Did you stop to think that might be what she wanted?"

"Mother," he says impatiently, "I'm the prince of Gallin. I think the last time I met a woman who didn't want to catch my attention she was ten and trying to steal pears from our gardens. Of course I did. But even if she was, if she's bold enough to do it that way, then she may be reckless enough to help-" He breaks off, unwilling to speak specific terms, even in a room where no one is supposed to be spying. "Reckless enough to help," he repeats, and makes it a finished sentence.

Sandalia, less paranoid or more confident than he, laughs. "Help? What would you have her do, Javier? Wrangle an introduction to the Aulunian court and slip poison into Lorraine's tea?"

Javier exhales. "I had a different plan." This is a moment of danger, one he barely recognizes himself for risking. It borders on sentiment, a weakness Javier never thought himself to share, with the exceptions of his childhood friends. For those three he will do anything. To find himself about to propose what he intends to, in order to retain contact with the only other witchbreed being he's ever found-and in order to threaten the Aulunian throne, he reminds himself-speaks of something his mother might see as vulnerability.

It is never wise to show weakness to royalty.

Sandalia's eyebrows quirk, invitation to continue. Javier puts down his winegla.s.s and picks it up again, cursing himself for the tell even as he does so. "This is not," he begins, "intended as a long-term arrangement." He has to say that first, or she'll never listen. He has to say it first, to establish to himself that it's true. Interest and amus.e.m.e.nt light Sandalia's eyes at that opening foray. She gestures to the wine, and he pours her a cup, brings it to her grateful for the physical distraction. "Lanyarch is without a king since Charles's death," he says as he does so. "Either out of respect for you or fear of Lorraine, no one has come forth to put on a pretender's crown since you fled the country."

"Let's pretend respect," Sandalia says drily. "I know this, Javier."

"Lanyarch is still Aulun's greatest threat as an Ec.u.menic neighbor to the north, contentious and chafing under Reformation rule. But the threads that tie us there are slender, Mother. You're a widow, not a daughter of any Lanyarchan n.o.bility, and you have no children by Charles." He smiles suddenly, bright and disarming. "Unless 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 n.o.bility, 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 G.o.d'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 j.a.pe 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 b.a.s.t.a.r.d's life when a legitimate heir comes along. Ask her to marry you and she'll lose that concern, Javier, so for G.o.d'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 pa.s.s 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." a.s.selin 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 pa.s.sersby 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 a.s.selin's hazel eyes as Belinda fixed him with a steady gaze.

"You will behave with decorum, Lord a.s.selin. 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, a.s.selin?" 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 Ec.u.menic 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 a.s.selin'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 a.s.selin she was cowed. Eyes averted, she swallowed nervously against the pressure on her throat and dared a tiny nod. The corsets beneath Eliza's fas.h.i.+ons were looser, shaped more like a woman's natural form, only tightening to shelve the b.r.e.a.s.t.s 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 a.s.selin'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 ma.s.sage breath back into her body, though eagerness for explanation behind the stolen thoughts overrode any discomfort she felt. Only one person she knew might dare to want a king instead of a prince, for all that the prince was far out of her grasp as it was.

"Perhaps you need Eliza on your side." Pragmatic Eliza's ambitions couldn't have risen so high, and yet it was far too easy to see how they might have. An ache of unfamiliar sympathy shot upward through Belinda's chest, spiking in her throat. She quelled it with stillness: it was not her place to care for the pieces that were moved on the board, only to make certain of their alignment. It was easier not to care from the guise of a servant girl, though, removed from the intimate interactions of lifelong friends. This would be the only time in Belinda's life that she played so public a role-indeed, to do so again would be to invite exposure-and she found that the larger part of her was glad. Caring made her vulnerable, and she was unaccustomed to and displeased with the sensation.

Sacha answered her unspoken question with a sharp look. "She's not to be any part of this. My name, Marius's money, those might save us. Eliza's got nothing. Not even the patronage of the queen could keep her safe if she were part of plans that went awry."

"How long have you protected her?" Belinda hesitated over the penultimate word, knowing a.s.selin would hear the pause and interpret it as hinting at another: loved loved. His lip curled, equal parts confession and dismissal.

"Long enough to know what I'm about. She shares your roof, Irvine. Make sure she doesn't share your secrets." He turned on his heel and stalked away, slush splas.h.i.+ng around his feet. Belinda held her hand at her throat, her lips pursed as she watched him go. Whether he'd finished with her or whether Eliza was a delicate enough topic to drive him away, she wasn't certain. If it was the latter, that would be useful in the future, for all that the idea of using Javier's friends against one another sent a s.h.i.+ver of regret over Belinda's skin.

"Weakness," she murmured to herself. It was weakness to be concerned with any one of them. That thought fixed in mind, the stillness drawn around her like armour, she straightened her gown and her shoulders and stepped out of the shadows to climb her front steps. She would have to watch the mirror carefully for signs of bruising on her throat, and entreat Nina to find the best cosmetics to hide evidence of Sacha's visit.

JAVIER, PRINCE OF GALLIN

10 November 1587 Lutetia

Of all people, it is Marius he feels he must ask permission of. He, a prince of the realm-a prince of several, to hear Beatrice tell it, and the truth is, she's right-finds himself at a merchant boy's door somewhere past midnight, further in his cups than any sensible man should be, most especially one of his status.

He cannot, for some reason, bring himself to knock. His carriage waits on the street, coachman patient or at least silent, and Javier de Castille, son of Louis IV and Sandalia de Costa, can't bring himself to knock on the front door of his friend's home. The coachman will wait all night. The coachman may have to. Javier sways, wine surging through his blood and making him dizzy. He reaches for the door to keep himself steady, and to his shock, it opens beneath his hand.

Marius, tousle-headed and bleary-eyed, stands before him with an expression that Javier can't decipher. He is not surprised, the dark-haired merchant's son, not at all surprised for a man who's appeared at his own front door for no obvious reason, somewhere after the small bells of the morning have begun to toll. He stands there, looking up at his prince-Marius is well-built, broad enough of shoulder and slim enough of hip, but has nothing of Javier's height, or Sacha's bulk, for that matter. He looks up at his prince, and his prince looks down at him, and finally Marius steps out of the door and says, "I expect you should come in, whatever it is." There's little doubt in his voice: he knows as clearly as Javier does that "whatever" is Beatrice. It's merely a matter of discovering what particular h.e.l.l being the prince's friend will now cost.

Javier does, because his other choice is to spill-or spew, given how much he's drunk-his guts on the threshold. He asks, "What are you doing up?" as he steps in, and regards it as a stupid question. So, it seems, does Marius, who chuffs something like laughter and closes the door behind Javier. Darkness overwhelms them; Marius in his sleeping s.h.i.+rt and bare feet isn't so much as carrying a candle to light his way, and the flickering streetlights outside are too distant to penetrate the curtained windows of the entrance gallery.

"I heard the carriage, and then felt you pacing." Marius says this as if it's natural, and Javier wonders if it is. Suddenly the answer is important, and he grasps Marius's shoulder.

"Felt me?"

"You're a lead weight to be around when you've got something on your mind, Jav. You always have been. It brings the rest of us down, like you're a drowning man clinging to our ankles. You know that. No one comes out unscathed when you're in a mood."

"I didn't. I didn't know." Javier's not precisely sure that's true; he's been careful for so many years not to influence his friends consciously with the witchpower, it's never occurred to him that he might be doing so accidentally. "I'm sorry."

"You're soused," Marius says, not unkindly. "Come on to the kitchen. Some bread will sop up some of that drink." He guides Javier, who hasn't released his shoulder, down the dark hall and down a short set of wooden stairs into a kitchen lit by the banked embers of a fire. Only when Javier is seated in front of the hearth does it come to him to demand, childishly, "How do you know I'm drunk?"

"Two things." Marius tears off a chunk of bread from a new loaf; the cook will be outraged come morning. "First, you smell like a brewery." He hands Javier the bread and roots around for a knife, unwrapping cheese as he speaks. "And second, you never apologize for anything unless you're too drunk to remember your position." Now he brings his prince the cheese and pulls a stool closer to the fire, studying Javier in the red-tinted light. "Is she pregnant, then?"

"f.u.c.k," Javier says, and for long moments can think of nothing else to say. "f.u.c.k, Mar, you're not even supposed to know I'm swivving her."

"My lord prince," Marius says so diplomatically Javier knows the next words will be insulting. Nor does Marius disappoint. "Just how f.u.c.king stupid do you think I am?"

"I don't think you're stupid," Javier protests, and it's true. "It's only-"

"Only that when our royal friend sees fit to pursue one of our women that we're supposed to politely glance aside and notice nothing. Sometimes I envy Eliza, Jav. At least you don't look to her paramours."

Javier, distracted, demands, "Liz has lovers?" and then, offense managing to work its way through wine, adds, "You're cruel tonight, Marius. It's not like you."

"I think I may have earned it, Jav," Marius says, so softly that guilt burns hot through Javier's blood. It's an unfamiliar and unwelcome sensation, and it's the one that drove him first to an excess of drink, and ultimately to Marius's doorstep.

"I'm going to ask her to marry me." There has to be a better way to couch it, but the words blurt themselves out, not out of viciousness but desperation. And Marius pales in the ruddy light, shock widening his pupils until there's nothing but darkness in his eyes.

"Oh, my lord prince." The whisper has edges. "Do I not deserve better than that?"

Javier closes his eyes against the pain in Marius's question. "You deserve far better than I," he replies, and can't bring himself to look on his friend again. "So does she, and for being friend to a prince neither of you will get it. I won't marry her. I can't. But she's Lanyarchan, and even the threat of a fresh alliance between my mother and that country-" It's too much to tell the merchant's son, but Javier can find it in himself to say no less. Marius does deserve better, and the only offering he can make is the hard truth. And Marius is silent in the face of Javier's faltering, so quiet the prince is forced to open his eyes and gauge his friend's expression.

There is pain there. More than Javier ever wanted to cause the few people in his life whom he trusts implicitly. Pain and weariness and worst of all, acceptance. Wouldn't it be better for Marius to rail and shout, to hit him and stand his ground against Javier's desire?

No. The answer comes too fast. For all the friends.h.i.+p shared, Javier is still a prince and Marius still a merchant's son. He can't throw himself on Javier in outrage even when Javier most richly deserves it. Worse still, the witchpower would never allow it to happen, even if Javier should steel himself to cower and brace against the blows he so richly deserves. His power would work to protect him instinctively, either through the s.h.i.+elding that he and Beatrice have discovered or through the part of Javier that is, and will always be, royalty. No one may lay a hand on a prince, and even if Javier might school his conscious mind to other ends, the core of him would lash out and bend Marius to his will. Better that Marius hold in his betrayal and let it show in smaller ways than clear insubordination and threats.

"So you will act at last," Marius finally whispers. Javier isn't expecting that, and finds himself staring through the darkness at his friend. "Does she love you, Javier?"

"I don't know. I hope not."

"Do you love her?"

Only because he owes this man so much, in the form of Beatrice Irvine, will Javier answer that question. He closes his eyes, savoring the words as he speaks them: "I don't know. I hope not."

"I do," Marius says steadily. "Love both of you, and see no way for this to end happily. But then, that's not the point, is it?" He needs no more answer to that than he might need answer to the colour of the sky. He stands, gesturing toward the food Javier still holds. "Eat, my prince. You'll need to be sober if you're going to ask a woman to marry you."

Javier, unusually obedient, tears at the bread with his teeth, its aroma suddenly heady. For a few minutes he does nothing but gobble down the tender savory and the cheese. Marius hands him wine, so well-watered there's only a glimmer of flavour, and waits for him to drink that before he speaks again. "Will you tell her that she's only a mark to be used in a political game?"

The thought quite literally hasn't occurred to Javier. He scowls through the dimness, more at the fire than at his friend. "Should I?"

Marius breathes a sound like laughter. "How many women would say yes to a proposal like that, Jav? But Beatrice might," he adds more quietly. There is something indecipherable in his expression again. In another man Javier might call it subterfuge or canniness, but Marius has always worn his heart on his sleeve. The idea that he might now be trying to manipulate events is laughable. "Her pa.s.sion for her country's freedom is great," Marius finishes, and Javier has to look away again.

"And being engaged to royalty, however briefly, might make her an even more appealing wife," he offers. Marius exhales again, another noise that resembles laughter.

"To those who care about such things, yes. I don't. I don't even think my mother does. Now, if you were to elevate her to some duchy or something, Mother might care..." He's joking, and his expression changes to startlement, then horror as he sees Javier considering the idea. "Jav, I don't need-"

"But it would make a magnificent bride-gift, wouldn't it," Javier murmurs. "So outrageous as to alarm Lorraine. Take a minor Lanyarchan n.o.ble, elevate her to a d.u.c.h.ess, propose to marry her...short of slapping her face with a glove there could be no more obvious announcement of Gallin's intentions toward Aulun." He offers a smile that he knows is too weak. "And in the end my friend could become n.o.bility, without me ever conferring the favour directly. It's a pretty setup, isn't it?"

"And where does it leave Eliza?" Marius wonders.

"Oh, h.e.l.l," Javier says recklessly. "I'll marry her to Sacha and we'll all be happy."

Marius barks laughter this time, so derisive Javier straightens in offense. "Yes, my prince" is all the merchant lad will say, though, and Javier climbs to his feet unsteadily. Puts his hand on Marius's shoulder, gripping muscle as he leans heavily.

"Will you forgive me, Marius?" The question's asked thickly, more than just wine weighting it. Marius folds his hand over Javier's on his shoulder, then reaches out to grasp the back of the prince's neck, bringing his head in until they touch foreheads, an intimacy Javier would allow almost no one else. Marius holds them there a long time before his grip tightens and he sighs.

His answer, the only answer he can give, will haunt Javier for the rest of his days: "Yes, my prince."