No regard for Rhannon at all. She’d seen the people, two days ago. Cowed and broken, dead-eyed and hopeless. Vespus wouldn’t care about helping them. He’d watched with apathetic eyes as the Decorum Ward beat the crowd back. He wouldn’t rein them in; he’d use them to keep control, to help him move the people from the land he wanted so badly.
She could have freedom, but the price was Rhannon. Charon, Irris, Bayrum, Tuva. They’d all suffer. And the people… She thought of her grandmother, and how hard she’d worked to temper her son’s orders. And Irris, who’d set aside her own dreams to try to step up when she was needed.
And like Irris, she was the only person who could step forward now. The only person who might stop Mael, and therefore Vespus. It was her, or no one.
Sorrow walked to the window and drew back the drapes. Charon had kept them closed, as the vice chancellor ought to. His room had a different view from hers, another side to the garden, and she recognized the pond she and Irris had sat beside the day before.
It was another beautiful day, one she hadn’t known about, because the curtains were closed.
She remembered the plans she and Irris had made, lying on her bedroom floor, what felt like a lifetime ago. The growth, and the art, and the hope they’d scrawled across the paper. The connections she’d wanted to make with Meridea, and Skae, and Svarta. The return of colour, and music, and flowers. A land where windows were opened, and children laughed. Where people looked to the universities, and the guilds, and began to build hopes and dreams around them. The Rhannon she’d heard about in stories.
It was time to open the curtains. It was time to let the world back in.
She pushed the fabric aside and opened the window, filling the room with the sound of birdsong, as she walked back to Charon, who was watching her carefully.
“Rhannon can’t take another chancellor like your father,” he said. “I know it’s terrible to speak ill of the dead, but it’s the truth.”
“I’m not like my father,” Sorrow said. “I’m not weak. We need to find proof that Mael isn’t who he’s pretending to be. But I’m going to run against him regardless. Because I am a Ventaxis. And I will be the hundred and fifth chancellor of Rhannon.”
The vice chancellor held out his hand, and Sorrow shook it.
PART TWO
“We must not look at goblin men,
We must not buy their fruits:
Who knows upon what soil they fed
Their hungry thirsty roots?”
—Christina Rossetti, “Goblin Market”
Luvian Fen
“Damn him.” Sorrow raged at the morning circular in her hand, terrifying the girl who’d been serving her tea. “Sorry,” she muttered, waiting until the servant had scurried out of the room before she continued. “He’s done it again.”
Across the breakfast table, a slim young man, wearing a sharp charcoal three-piece suit and silver-rimmed spectacles, paused in the act of smearing butter along a slice of bread, his knife held aloft like a baton. “I assume you mean Mael? What has he done again?”
“Released another statement that’s the same as one of ours.” Sorrow brandished the thin newspaper at him. “Fourth day in a row. Exactly the same.” She used the paper to gesture at the wall, where Irris had pinned up the list of ideas that she and Sorrow had written back in Istevar, all those weeks ago.
“It’s word for word what we wrote – appoint judges to make decisions about criminals, and stop the Decorum Ward from doing it. I’m telling you, Luvian, we have a spy. Someone here is telling him our plans, and he’s making sure he gets them out there first so people think they’re his.”
Luvian Fen shrugged. “OK,” he said calmly, before continuing to butter his bread.
“Luvian!” Sorrow waited until he looked back at her. “You’re supposed to be my advisor. Shouldn’t you be a little concerned about this? He’s putting our ideas out there before we have a chance to. You should let me release statements too.”
Luvian put down the knife with an exaggerated air of tolerance. “Firstly, as I keep telling you, it will be a thousand times more powerful if you introduce your plans as a whole at the presentation next week, and then publish the entire thing in one go. The mourning period for your father ended three days ago; people are going to be preoccupied with what that means. As far as the people of Rhannon are concerned, the election campaigns will officially begin with your respective presentations. I suspect the only people reading your brother’s statements are us, and the Jedenvat.”
“Don’t call him my brother; we still don’t know if he is or not,” Sorrow reminded him.
“My apologies,” Luvian said blandly. “Secondly, of course we have a spy. Do you think I don’t have spies in their camp?”
Sorrow blinked. “Wait – do you?”
“Obviously. Where do you think all my information comes from? And, yes, they will have spies here, who’ve probably read your manifesto.” He nodded at the wall. “You have to admit, it was a little naive to pin it up where anyone could see it. But be assured there’s nothing on there that they won’t have thought of too – it’s not that far-fetched that he had the same idea – he’s taking advice from Vespus, after all, and that’s how it’s done in Rhylla. Lawkeepers make arrests, suspects are tried, a jury decides, and a judge determines the punishment, or not.”
“But—”
“And if I thought your list could be used against us, I’d have taken it down. Luckily for you, it’s predictably mediocre, and, if I’m honest, darling Sorrow, more than a touch idealistic. Though that’s simply my opinion.”
Fighting to stay calm, Sorrow replied, “Well, all your so-called information has turned up is the fact he prefers lemon curd to lime, writes with his left hand, and likes to sing while he bathes, despite having a terrible voice. Which is also predictably useless, in my opinion.”
Believing she’d made her point, Sorrow took a large sip of coffee.
But Luvian was ready for her. “I’ve been meaning to ask, does that run in the family?”
Sorrow choked.
“I’m kidding!” Luvian tossed a napkin over to her as Sorrow scrabbled for a nasty enough insult to lob at him. “Lighten up, lovely.” He paused again, and looked at her over the rims of his glasses. “Seriously, Sorrow, what did you expect? A servant conveniently overhearing Vespus and Mael laughing evilly together about how he absolutely isn’t really the lost boy? Vespus isn’t an idiot – he’s been working on this for a long time – but the closer we get to the election, the more likely he is to make a mistake, because he won’t be able to control it. You need to be patient. Gossip and rumours travel on swifter winds than truth does.”