“No!” Margareta bucked against Isabelle so hard that she lost her grip, and the maidenblade made a long, shallow gash in her neck. But Julio had seized the queen’s foot and deftly thrust it through the circlet.
As her toes passed the circle’s plane, her body stretched like pulled taffy. She screamed and grabbed the floor to gain some sort of purchase on the slick marble, but space twisted around her, folding her into a tighter and tighter spiral, like fibers being twisted into an infinitely thin thread. Her legs went first, then her torso, then her shoulders, her head, and her flailing, beating hands. Then she was gone. The last thing to die away was her scream.
Isabelle’s eyes felt like they were about to pop out of her head. “Saints preserve.”
“The saints preserve those who follow their guidance,” Julio said, reaching out a hand to pull her up. “Margareta was not good at that.”
Isabelle surveyed the scene. Príncipe Alejandro cradled Xaviera, a surgeon arrived for Jean-Claude, and the newly minted Príncipe Clìmacio stood looking somewhat alone and uncertain in the middle of the dais. The guards, the Sacred Hundred, and all the witnesses milled uncertainly.
“Then who shall be king?” shouted someone from the floor.
Julio drew himself up. “By right, the crown goes to Alejandro. I was pleased that he should be the heir before I was kidnapped, and I am still pleased that he should be.”
“And what of him?” One of the dons pointed at Clìmacio.
Clìmacio looked to Isabelle; she gestured him toward Alejandro. Clìmacio swallowed and said. “Alejandro is king.”
Alejandro looked up from comforting his stricken wife and glowered at Clìmacio. “I will leave it up to Xaviera whether or not to forgive you.”
Clìmacio winced but said nothing, which was probably for the best.
Isabelle said, “I doubt Margareta consulted him before torturing Xaviera, nor provided him any chance to protest afterward.” She took in the assemblage with her gaze. “Indeed, no one here is guiltless. If justice were something handed down from on high, then we should all be punished most heinously. But justice is not handed down from on high, it is a thing we mortals make for ourselves. It is therefore imperfect and flawed and it breaks from time to time and we must repair it, rebuild it, and improve it so that at least we will be forced to make new mistakes.” She met Alejandro’s gaze. “Have you no memory you wish you could change, no act to undo?”
A look of anguish crossed Alejandro’s face, and he turned away from Isabelle. For a moment his body shook as if with grief. Yet when he looked up again, his mien was resolute. He turned to Clìmacio and said, “Much pain and suffering could have been averted if you had shown any courage at all. But if I were to condemn everyone who ever failed a test of courage, my kingdom would be a much emptier place.”
With Xaviera in his arms, Alejandro turned to face the Sacred Hundred. “The last words my father spoke were these: ‘I have three sons.’ Go forth and let it be known that all who lay down their arms and swear to me will be forgiven.”
CHAPTER
Twenty-three
Isabelle gasped and drew a huge breath of air as her espejismo returned to her body. How long had it been since she had actually been able to feel herself breathing? Ten hours? Twelve? She and Julio had stayed at the Hall of Mirrors as long as possible, hammering out the general shape of an agreement for the disposition and allotment of royal authority, pedigree, inheritance, and clemency. Both she and Julio had felt it urgent to finalize the major points of the agreement while everyone was still confused and distraught and willing to take direction.
To Isabelle, who had played the role of arbiter of truth, the ad hoc congress had been rather like watching ice crystals form on a windowpane, order appearing almost spontaneously from chaos. Eventually, however, the needs of the flesh overcame the program of the mind. She and Julio had been forced to retreat. Isabelle had left Jean-Claude, weak as a newly hatched chick but steadfast in his resolve, in charge of her personal negotiations.
Now she found herself curled on her side, her head braced by fat pillows and her body wrapped in a thick blanket, her flesh hand still clasped in Julio’s. Between them lay a platter of bread and cheese and fresh fruit.
Isabelle shuddered with a wave of returning sensation, her whole body tingling and aching. Julio, similarly swaddled, smiled at her and sat up. She returned his admiration and allowed him to help her up. Gretl sat nearby, fast asleep in a wooden armchair.
“How do you feel?” Julio asked.
Isabelle took an inventory of sensations. “Tired, hungry, bladder sore. And you?”
His smile faded. “When Kantelvar originally approached my father with the idea of bringing in a foreign princess to marry, I objected. It was against all tradition and it reeked of intrigue. I … Since meeting you I have come to the conclusion that was a mistake, and I would like to withdraw my opposition.”
Isabelle’s pulse fluttered just a little at this very indirect proposal, and yet it also left a chill. She scuffed the ground with her toe.
“When Kantelvar first came to my father with this proposal, or at least when I first found out about it, I saw it as my escape, my one golden chance to get away from my father. He was the worst villain in the world, or at least my world. I could not have imagined what Kantelvar turned out to be, or what he had in mind for me, to bear the Savior. Even if not for the danger of mixing bloodlines as … complex as ours, I am reluctant to carry on his plan without him. I want to give birth to a child, not a god or an abomination.”
Julio chuckled softly. “Judging by the ladies in court, you’d think all children were both saints and monsters.”
“True,” Isabelle said, momentarily distracted by visions of screaming, laughing squalling sub-adults. “Growing up seems a bit like taking an average of the extremes.” And if she couched it in mathematical terms, so what? If Julio wanted to marry her, he was going to have to accept her philosophical pursuits.
Julio said, “Besides, now we know the purity doctrine is false. The saints mixed bloodlines all the time. And those crosses that created you brought back a sorcery long thought dead.”
“A sorcery that many will feel marks me as the Breaker’s get.” She gave him a calculating look. “Or are you hoping that Kantelvar’s prophecy really will come true, and you will be the father of the Savior?”
Julio recoiled. “Saints spare me, no.”
Isabelle pulled a blanket around her shoulders as a shawl against the cold, damp cistern air. “Then why do you want to marry me? Aside from the fact that you no longer find me objectionable?”