C. Murphy - The Queen_s Bastard

“I have a proposal for you,” she says in Khazarian. Viktor she trusts, but the Gallic guard will run to his queen with word of her intentions, if she lets him. Robert flicks an eyebrow upward and spreads his hands.

“I’m listening.”

“You’re to die at dawn,” she says, which garners a nod from him. No surprise, no dismay, just agreement. She finds that she likes that in him; perhaps it’s the same quality she finds delightful in his daughter. “I can save you.”

“In exchange for?” His voice is steady; whatever he fears, it’s not the threat of being left to die. Akilina crouches, though it means more of her skirt touches the filthy floor, and smiles down at him before murmuring secrets of state and treason into the dark.

12 January 1588 Lutetia She had no poison of choice. Such things couldn’t be kept in her bedchambers within the palace, and she had no time left to hurry into Lutetia and obtain arsenic or even something less subtle. It ate at her, being unable to leave that final gift in certainty; a healthy pinch would spell Sandalia’s death, and leave Belinda free to tear herself from Gallic shores.

Slipping into Sandalia’s private chambers was so easy as to bring frustrated tears to Belinda’s eyes. She remembered too clearly hours spent watching, waiting, hiding in plain sight, hoping for the chance to steal into other dignitaries’ quarters so she might fulfill her duties. A lifetime had been wasted in those petty behaviors, when she might have done what she now could, let shadow cloak her and force eyes to see through her even as she walked between armed guards and perfumed courtiers. She might have lived a life more like the one Javier had been born to, and been all the more secretive for it, as who could believe that a lady raised to the courts might have the skill or the will to thrust a dagger into a man’s ribs?

Or a queen’s. The thought whispered so softly Belinda barely let herself admit she’d thought it. Ten minutes earlier, while the queen and her courtiers ate supper, Belinda had stood at Sandalia’s side, nimble fingers unfastening the catch on the Gallic regent’s necklace, so she could slip away the keys that opened Sandalia’s twice-locked office drawers. Once more so very easy, when she let desperation drive her. Too easy: had the court not expected Belinda Primrose to be buried in an oubliette until dawn, even the call of duty and the power riding her might not have pushed her into taking the risk. If anyone had dreamed she might be free, the shadows she cast around herself might have been breachable; it was only circumstance that allowed such tactics to be put to use. Still, the ease of it all made her burn with frustration and regret for a lifetime of harder choices.

She might so easily have ended it there, taken Sandalia’s life in exchange for her own humiliation, but the tiny knife she carried no longer sat at the small of her back. For all its strength, Belinda doubted that witchpower would hide her through the process of strangling a woman with her bare hands. There were other ways to ensure Sandalia’s death, and Belinda would be far from the palace by the time they were set in motion.

There was no light beyond frail moon shadows in Sandalia’s office. Belinda moved almost blindly, using flawless memory to step around the chairs and find the desk locks in the darkness. The fall of tumblers sounded loud as waterfalls as she opened them, sliding free parchment that condemned the queen with her own hand. Not just one queen, but two: Irina would not emerge unscathed, either, even if she denied with all vehemence that Akilina spoke on her behalf. Belinda leafed through the papers in the dim light, watching for the royal seal, then set them on the desktop, satisfied as she closed the drawer again.

Another few minutes’ work picked the first lock carefully, triggering the glistening needle. She used the hem of her dress to slip the poisoned dart free, bringing it to her nose to sniff and place the poison by its scent. It had none discernible; the glistening material was likely to carry the poison, rather than be it. Pleasure curved her mouth and she smeared the stuff on the fabric before reaching for the elegant glass that sat on Sandalia’s desk. She wiped her hem around its edge, lacing it with poison, then tested the second lock to find another dart that she dropped into the nearest wine decanter. Sandalia’s papers would be protected with something strong. A thief caught by poison and able to talk was more useful than a dead one, but a dead man was better than one who managed to escape. Sandalia would not dare lose state secrets to a chance at survival.

It was a pity Akilina couldn’t be expected to share the queen’s glass, but that was a dish best served cold; time would prove a chance to taste it. Belinda gathered up the parchment, a chill lifting hairs on her arms as if her very skin understood the import of what she touched, and she slipped toward the door, heart quick with triumph.

It opened before she touched it, sending her back into shadows with a smothered gasp that turned to a soft, incredulous laugh. “Robert?”

Her father, gratifyingly, flinched, then turned his head to gaze through darkness and find her unerringly. Belinda let witchpower go, feeling suddenly bright against the night, a beacon, and a smile turned one corner of Robert’s mouth. “So this is where you’ve gotten to, Primrose. I checked the dungeons.” His hand dipped into his vest-his clothes were still torn and stained, but he had straightened them on his body, made himself as presentable as a beaten man could be-and withdrew it again, silver glinting across his palm. “You seem to have lost something.”

Another laugh broke from Belinda’s throat as she took the dagger from Robert’s hand. “Thank you. How did you…?”

“I might ask you the same question, but neither is one to be addressed here. You have the treaties.” He took in her bundled armload with a pleased glance. “How wonderful. My temporary employer will be so disappointed. Return to Aulun, Belinda. Show Lorraine what you carry, and know that your work here will force a war to change everything.” He gave her a quick nod, turning away.

“Father.” Belinda’s voice broke as it followed him. He turned back, arching an eyebrow, and she took a step toward him, crushing the papers against her chest. It was not the time; he was right. There would be another chance to ask the questions only he could answer. She knew patience; it was the only virtue she might call her own. Despite that, the words scraped out.

“I remember, Robert. I remember Dmitri and the night you said it was too soon and came into my room to put a wall in my mind. I remember.” Surprise darkened Robert’s eyes; surprise and something else: a hint of respect, perhaps, and a touch of dismay. Belinda’s breath came short, need sparking off her so that she could nearly see it, golden fizzles of light born of her will alone. “All my life I’ve done Aulun’s bidding. I’m my mother’s creature; I’m yours. But what am I?”

A smile had begun to crease his beard. It fell away at her precise words, at mention of her mother, and Belinda fought down the urge to hawk and spit with frustration. “My mother,” she repeated. “I know that, too. I always have, since the day du Roz died. I remember, Robert. Titian curls. Grey eyes, a pale face. I remember my birth. How can I? What am I?”

Now the smile returned, covering pride and astonishment, and her father touched her cheek, gentle paternal action. “You are my daughter.” He nodded, still smiling, and she felt within him the same flex of will that Javier could command: a nearly unconscious expectation that no one would question him, or stand before his desires. She had once stood against Javier’s whim, not cowering; it had been enough, then. It no longer was.