C. Murphy - The Queen_s Bastard

It took more than one key to open a heavy drawer within the desk. Sandalia tucked the keys back into her bodice, a location sufficiently secure that Belinda briefly despaired of acquiring them herself, and withdrew a stack of parchment, spreading the top pages out as Javier joined her behind the desk. Belinda held herself still again, heart crashing against her ribs while Javier traced a fingertip down one sheet of parchment, murmuring written words aloud: “‘…commitment of troops toward the administration of open water passages from Khazar’s port town of Nvskya to the Essandian Straits.’ ‘Administration,’” he repeated. “A delicate word for indelicate intentions. This has your signature already, Mother. Yours and Akilina’s. Can you be certain you ally yourself with Irina, and not her duchess?”

“Would you have me use seizure and control? We tread dangerous enough waters as it is,” Sandalia said shortly. “The details of ratification are at the top. Read carefully, Javier. Akilina acts in Irina’s name or not at all.”

“Does my uncle Rodrigo know?”

A lance of guilt spiked from Sandalia, though her words didn’t betray it: “Irina still dances with him on a treaty. Their sexes suggest treaties should be made by marriage, and Irina wants that no more than any of us.” Belinda knew she spoke of the reigning queens of Echon, an unusual sisterhood endlessly threatened by the men around them. Javier allowed himself a brief laugh.

“Does something make the imperatrix think that Rodrigo’s eager for marriage? He’s managed to avoid it for thirty years.”

“My brother prefers to make his conquests peacefully,” Sandalia said. “It’s why he still treats with Lorraine, and why Irina should be cautious.”

“Lorraine will die before she gives her hand and throne in marriage,” Javier said. Sandalia lifted her eyes, pretty face carved with an animal smile.

“Yes. She will.”

The threat’s weight settled over Belinda’s skin like a cloak, wrapping her tightly in it. Her fingers drifted to the small of her back, where her tiny dagger lay hidden beneath clothes and corsets. It would be very easy to end it now, to slip forward unseen and drive the blade into Sandalia’s throat. Javier would not be able to save her, or raise an alarm quickly enough to save his own life. There was no other choice, if she were to kill the queen now: it must be both of them, so no one was left for a pretender’s crown. She could take the papers that Sandalia and Javier now gloated over and return to Aulun; the treaty would prove her right to have acted as she did. Lorraine’s reluctance to put another regent to death would be mitigated by proof positive of plots against her, and with the witchpower helping her, no one would ever know Belinda had done the deed that saved her queen.

She found her skirts already gathered high, a hand twisted behind her back to snake its way beneath her corset in search of the blade she was never without.

“Akilina came as an ambassador in truth, then,” Javier half-asked, still studying the treaty. “A woman.”

Sandalia let a shoulder rise and fall. “Who better to trust than another woman, rather than the men who insist we are too weak to rule in our own right? There’s a price, Javier.” She turned a page, parchment whispering against itself. “This treaty has a price.”

“They all do,” Javier said mildly. His fingertips stopped their wandering, pressed against the sheet Sandalia had uncovered, and he read for a few seconds before breathing, “Ah. This cannot be what Akilina wanted, Mother. She came to Gallin in search of a throne.” He chuckled, another soft sound, as Sandalia glanced at him in surprise. “I’m not that blind to reality, Mother, even with this match made to Beatrice.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” Steel crept into the queen’s voice, then faded again as she touched the papers above Javier’s hand. “And you’re right, it isn’t. But she cannot protest overmuch, or she’ll lose her standing as an ambassador. And it benefits her, if not as thoroughly as she might like.”

“She wants public adoration. But failing that, yes, standing behind the throne might do.” Javier took a breath. “So you’ll wed me to the Khazarian heir after all.”

Cold sluiced through Belinda, chilling her fingers against the small of her back. Ivanova Durova, Irina’s daughter. Dmitri’s daughter. Belinda clenched her hand and let her skirts fall again, heart hammering once more. Neither Dmitri nor Robert would allow the engagement of Khazar to Gallin if they did not tacitly approve; Belinda’s hasty action in taking Javier’s life along with his mother’s could easily disrupt Robert’s plans. She set her teeth together, a new flush of anger running over her. Hers had been a lifetime of servitude, never asking why, but this once, set loose in the Lutetian court, understanding her father’s ultimate purpose might have been useful. Securing Lorraine’s throne was the obvious end game, but allying the massive eastern country of Khazar to tiny Gallin had to go beyond that. Perhaps that alliance might end in a victory for Aulun that Belinda couldn’t yet see. She would have to risk a letter to Robert, seek his guidance. Nothing else could clear her way.

“How will you secure the troops?” Javier asked softly. Sandalia dimpled at him, suddenly youthful.

“Your plot with Beatrice is proving to be the perfect foil. Troubles stir on Lanyarch’s border. We need only push it far enough for Lorraine to risk invading, and then Lanyarch, under my banner, can call to Cordula for help in repelling the Reformation soldiers.”

“Khazan is a long way from Cordula, Mother. We don’t so much as share a religion with them.”

“Irina treats with Cordula as well.” Sandalia’s voice was full of the same casual arrogance that her son’s often carried. “The Pappas and his patriarchs see her overtures as a softening toward the Ecumenic faith, and intend, in time, to use them to convert Khazan. Until missionaries are sent, though, Cordula is happy to accept troops willing to fight where Cordula decrees.”

“In Lanyarch and Aulun.”

“And Alunaer,” Sandalia finished, savage light of fanaticism suddenly bright in her voice. “We’ll take the battle to the Titian Bitch’s doorstep, Javier, and when it’s done you’ll sit on the island throne with a queen at your side.”

“And what of Beatrice?” Javier’s voice softened, deceptive in comparison to the resolve Belinda felt stiffening within him. “She and I have spoken of the need to put her aside, but we both believed there would be a match waiting for her. Marius is…no longer available. What of Beatrice?”

Sandalia touched his arm, a mother’s reassuring gesture, and smiled. “She’s come to mean a great deal to you, hasn’t she, Javier? You spoke of giving her lands; I’ll have papers drawn up for some small holding in Brittany. Marius may be consigned to another’s wedding bed, but your Beatrice is young and pretty enough. Another man will come along. I promise to take care of her,” she said, and Belinda could see in her eyes, and in Javier’s, that once more, they both took what they wanted from her words. Sandalia felt of honey-coated steel, and Javier struggled with shards of hope and belief fighting against his determination to not release the witchbreed woman he’d found. It was he who acquiesced, though, lowering his gaze and his head to murmur, “Thank you, Mother,” as a dutiful son should.

Belinda, slipping out behind them many long minutes later, wondered if such promises were what a noose tightening around a slender neck felt like.

11 January 1588 Lutetia Five long days of watching had not managed to provide Belinda with the opportunity to steal the keys that Sandalia kept on her person. She had, once, made her way back into Sandalia’s private chambers with lock-picks in hand, only to narrowly avoid a tiny, vicious needle, its tip stained dark, popping out from the lock. Belinda had sworn under her breath, searching her skin for marks, and used a blotter to press the needle back into place. The lock required keys: they needed, it seemed, to be turned simultaneously, and two hands were simply not enough to hold in place two separate locks and turn them together. The witchlight couldn’t be formed into something solid enough to manipulate the locks with her will, and after over an hour of attempting the job, she had reluctantly given up and let herself back out of Sandalia’s rooms.