“It’s not about luck, Havis. What happened could have been avoided, and you know it.”
“Perhaps, perhaps not.” The Ambassador drifts back to me, unhurried. “When my brother went to war, he was like this one. Too young to know any better.” I narrow my eyes again, because he has no idea what I’ve been through or why I do what I do, but he shrugs. “I’ve since made my own way. Free of that madness.”
“And you’re ready to work for justice?”
There’s a long pause. The tide chugs in and out, thumping below us, and the Resyan man smiles, lifting his wine glass. “I’m from the house of Havis, General. I do anything for the highest bid.”
He sips the juice, then makes a face.
12
AURELIA
Hathene, Etania
The loss of Hady arrives in a panicked tremor of rumours, gaining momentum and infecting the court with a vicious sense of persecution.
“Took the consul of the city himself, can you believe it? Hung him along with the officers. Left them bloating in the sun for three days.”
“I heard the entire week. My cousin serves with the Landorian forces, you know. He fled in time.”
“Truly, how could a pack of rebels pull such a thing off!”
“Outside help, I’m certain, but from where?”
They glance at my Resyan mother with an unspoken question in their eyes, and while she hardly seems to notice, I’m terrified they might somehow peer inside her head, see the words “great revolution” and “necessary change” there, and find their unwelcome answer.
Which is why I decide to host a Royal Chase.
“Stars, no one wants a frivolous thing like that right now,” Uncle complains when he learns of my idea, and that Mother’s supportive of it. “The world’s on the brink of boiling over again, and you think a horse race through the woods will distract our people from it?”
But I do, and Mother agrees. Even Reni gets a perky smile over it, because secretly he loves a good competition, especially a public one. And since his stallion is without a doubt the most magnificent in the field, of course he’ll win.
My brother needs a victory, and I’d like to give him one.
Race day brings the first truly hot day of summer. People flock from Hathene to the palace grounds, lured by the chance to make a gamble, and I think it’s very convenient that men are so moved by money. They stroll paths normally forbidden, admiring from afar the gardens, the royal airfield, the stables. Palace guards in green livery herd hundreds of commoners to a viewing point on a hill overlooking the lawn, while Mother and her court are escorted close to the course and the finish line, where a small podium has been raised. Cheerful enthusiasm grows as bets are placed and debated amid colourful parasols and caps.
“It’s good for the spirit to be outside,” Mother says to me, a tad wistful. She holds a wine-coloured folding fan in one hand, and with the other reaches out for the light, like she’s grasping a tangible thing. “I’ve missed the sun.”
It’s rare she steps outside like this, especially in summer. It burnishes her amber skin to a deeper shade that, no matter how lovely, only sets her apart further.
It does for me, too, but they’ll never keep me indoors, no matter what the court might think of my Southern hue.
Behind us, Uncle follows with the occasional long-suffering sigh. The Chase used to involve guns, but when I first learned that a fox would be released to die for the sport of it, I sobbed an entire night and Father changed the traditional rules to make it only a race. Uncle finds the whole thing rather pointless now.
Lord Jerig is waiting near the podium, pinched per usual, and Mother suggests we invite him to stand with us. “Sometimes the wisest move is to invite the enemy to your table,” she explains, striding for him with a diplomatic smile.
Well, if she thinks so.
Lord Marcin and Violet follow behind, Violet wearing a gigantic feather and clutching the arm of a boy I recognize—Slick, from the retirement party. She laughs with him, apparently not at all concerned the Prince will soon see her flaunting this clever-mouthed pilot boy, but her gaze darts often to the stables beyond, her laughter not entirely real.
Uncle pretends to be gracious and offers me a hand when we reach the podium steps.
I shake my head and follow Mother and Jerig up.
Then I stand before the crowd of courtiers, a circular brown microphone level with my mouth, and the group seems suddenly much larger. A lot of faces, familiar and unfamiliar, all staring expectantly at me, the host of the race. Waiting for me to give a pretty little speech. Even Violet hushes Slick soundly, his face wincing like a scolded puppy. But since I’ve seen Mother do this enough, I know how it should go, and I give a diplomatic smile.
“Welcome, dear friends, to our day of sport. We are honoured by your presence, each and every one of you.” I make sure to nod in the direction of the nearby hill, to the city folk listening to my echoing voice from a distance. “I hope you will enjoy this competition in the spirit from which it was born—for the love of our steeds, for the joy of these woods, and out of respect for excellent sportsmanship. This day is for all of us.”
I think my cheeks are a little pink, but otherwise my voice sounds steady.
The courtiers clap—Violet extra vibrantly, as if I’ve just juggled a dozen eggs at once—and a loud trumpet rings silvery across the lawn. Seven horses appear by the eastern gardens, Reni leading the group. He’s dressed in a leather coat and tall riding boots, astride his bay stallion, Liberty, who is mostly royalty himself—a gleaming mahogany creature with black points reaching to his knees and hocks, a giant among the other horses. He prances beneath my brother’s half-halts. Sweaty froth already slicks his neck and chest.
They’re trotting to the start line, waving at the eager spectators, and nearly to us, when there’s a sudden shout. Then another.
I shade my eyes from the sun, trying to see.
A strange tide erupts from within the crowd on the hill, emerging like furious ants onto the green before the horses.
“No Safire boots in Etania!” a man shouts, throwing himself down, arms spread.
Others shout the same, and the crowd silences in confusion. The courtiers before me clutch hats and parasols, gaping. Mother’s hand grips my arm like a vice as a mob of men in dark coats surround the horses and flail their arms at Liberty. Reni struggles to keep the stallion from rearing up. Liberty hops to the side instead and tosses his head, whinny mixing with the chants.
I break free of Mother’s grasp and hurry down the podium steps, sprinting for Liberty as best I can in a dress. Someone needs to take hold of the panicked stallion before he throws Reni off completely!
Guards have surrounded the men when I arrive, cuffing them behind the head, a commotion of shouts and fists and struggling limbs. Reni is still aboard, hollering at the men. “Your voices are heard! Her Majesty will listen. See, she comes now. Make your case and you will not be ignored.”
He sounds older addressing them, and he looks like some sort of knight, reining in his trembling, glorious stallion in circles.
I turn and find Mother close on my heels, but she’s glaring at Reni in fury. The look on her face is frightening. “Get these criminals from my sight,” she orders the guards. “Hold them until we have answers, is that understood?”
One of the men struggles between his captors. He has a grey mustache, his cleft chin blunt and square, intimidating even with a guard gripping either arm. “No Safire boots in Etania!” he shouts again into the wind. “We don’t want those bloody tracks here!”
“A Resyan woman doesn’t speak for us!” another cries.
Mother draws all of her fierce and catlike elegance into one single, dark-eyed gaze. “Your Queen speaks for you, traitor.”