So if my plan didn’t work, if I couldn’t convince him to stop his attack . . . what would we do then?
All I had on my side was science, and the bubbling rumors that I was chosen by the Forgotten. They didn’t exactly mesh together, and most people couldn’t really believe in my supposedly divine ascension. The Gustavites had planned an entire campaign around the idea that I was rotten, just like the court, that the Forgotten despised me. And maybe their feelings had come from an honest place, once, a desperate need for change, but they had still tried to murder me, still encouraged others to turn against me. They’d been quiet since Sten’s attack, since I’d distributed those pamphlets, but they were still an unknown quantity, potentially dangerous.
But I wasn’t who they thought I was. I cared, I did, and I wanted to make changes. I wanted to help people. Even if I wasn’t really chosen by the Forgotten, surely our aims might fit together. If Sten took the capital, it would be back to the way the court was before, undoing all of the Forgotten’s supposed interventions.
“Do you have anything to add, Your Majesty?” Holt said.
It was an insane idea. To convince the Gustavites to be on my side, to somehow twist around their entire agenda. If I could gently alter their ideology . . . but it would take subtlety, and time, and the nobles would be furious. It wasn’t exactly the perfect solution.
“I’ll go to the Minster this afternoon,” I said instead. “To pay my respects.” Make another show of my connection to the Forgotten, and let people think of it what they would. It seemed that faith would stop people from abandoning me, even if it wouldn’t do much more.
But could I really use people’s beliefs against them like that? If Holt had been involved in the murders, if he had been manipulating me all along, a puppet queen for his twisted agenda . . .
Could I manipulate them, too, to save myself?
Yes, I thought, and I hated myself slightly for the knowledge. I would manipulate them if it meant staying alive.
Norling was the first to leave after the council meeting concluded, marching off to arrange the Minster visit, while Holt reflected on his notes. I paused, too, standing behind my chair. I could ask him about his trip to the palace, or at least about things related to it, find some way to uncover the truth.
But if it had been suspicious, and I revealed what I knew too soon . . . it was too risky.
I had begun to walk toward the door when Holt spoke.
“Your Majesty? I hoped I could speak to you. In private.”
I glanced at Norling’s now-empty seat, and my heart started pounding. What could he want to say to me, that he couldn’t say in front of her? “All right,” I said carefully. “What is it?”
“You know that I am here to support you, Your Majesty. My goal—my only goal—is to help you survive.”
“I know.” And I did. Despite all my suspicion, I’d never doubted that he genuinely supported me. His belief was fervent, unsettling in its force. I was frightened by what he might have done in order to create this new court, what he might still be willing to do, but I knew he wouldn’t directly hurt me.
Which made his statement all the more unsettling.
“So you know that I am speaking to your best interests when I say that William Fitzroy is a danger to you, in more ways that you realize.”
“I know,” I said again. “You’ve told me.”
“But obviously I have not made the details clear enough, because you have ignored my advice. I told you that people are talking about you, saying you plotted to take the throne together. There are some filthy lies in there, Your Majesty, things that I do not wish to repeat, but Sten is more than happy to endorse them, and they are doing real damage to you. They are eroding our message of the Forgotten’s chosen queen.”
“I appreciate your concern,” I said, “but if people are already talking, I can’t change that now. It’ll only look more suspicious if I push him away, like they stumbled onto the truth.”
“That is not all, Your Majesty. I know you wish to see the good in people, and I respect you for that, but I have been conducting my own research into the murders, and into Fitzroy’s behavior. Something has not been right.”
“Why can’t Norling hear about this?”
“She disagrees with me, Your Majesty. As she does about many things. She did not consider the avenues worth pursuing. But I believe she is wrong.”
“And you’ve—found evidence?”
He’d been assembling a case against Fitzroy. Not openly, not with Norling, but in secret, alone. Because Fitzroy was a problem, and he needed to be dealt with. Because he damaged Holt’s idea of the perfect chosen queen. An official investigation would find nothing on him, but if Holt was determined enough, and manipulated the evidence enough . . .
“I found a mention, in the diary of King Jorgen’s chief adviser. He commented that the king planned to disinherit Fitzroy.”
“Fitzroy was never inherited to begin with.”
“But he always had that hope. We all knew that, Your Majesty. It seems very possible to me that Fitzroy was tired of being out of favor, and decided to act to change that.”
“By murdering everybody?”
“He murdered many people, Your Majesty. Everyone who might have known anything about his so-called legitimacy. He wished to unsettle things, so that he could step into the throne instead.”
Holt looked terrifyingly sincere. That would be odd if he were the murderer himself. But I didn’t trust the sanity of anyone willing to kill so many people. If Holt could convince himself that he was an agent of the Forgotten, murdering for the greater good, surely he could convince himself that Fitzroy deserved to be punished, as well. Surely he could perform this one final task.
“Fitzroy didn’t make any move for the throne,” I said carefully. “He didn’t want it.”
“When he realized that someone in the city had survived, I believe he changed his strategy. He decided to win you over. Whether for a later betrayal or to gain the crown through marriage, I do not know.”
“Stop.” The word burst out of me. “That’s enough. I trust Fitzroy. Which is more than I can say for you right now.”
I almost asked him about his presence in the palace. The words were on the tip of my tongue, ready to be thrown at him, but then I saw his expression, and I paused. He looked resolved. As though the last piece of a terrible truth had fallen into place, and now he only had to react to it.
“I am sorry that you feel that way, Your Majesty,” he said. “But the problem must be dealt with, regardless of your feelings. If you will excuse me.”
He bowed, rather stiffly, and strode out of the room.
The problem must be dealt with. The words rang in my ears. Dealt with, like Holt may have dealt with the rest of the court. Like a weed, needing to be ripped away in order for his precious new queen to flourish.