Disillusioned (The Birthright Series Book 3), page 2
“And half-humans?” Lark asks.
“They will be welcome in my service, and welcome in this family. Always.”
“What about one quarter evian?” Maxmillian asks. “What about one-eighth?” He grunts. “You’ll degrade the line with this nonsense. Alamecha will be corrupted within a century, and what you perceive as justice will result in weaker and weaker guards. Our leadership in all branches will suffer if you allow those who are lesser to fill positions.”
“Exactly what he said,” Franco says. “These changes will spell the doom of Alamecha as we know it.”
“Our requirements for obtaining a position will remain the same. The most excellent of the options will be chosen. Are you concerned that humans will defeat evians in performance, thereby being selected for elite positions?”
“I’m saying that they’ll clog up the infrastructure with their petitions and complaints. Mark my words,” Franco says.
I can’t quite help my grin. “You’re saying that degrading the line is a bad thing.” I gesture around the entire room. “Alamecha is rotting with selfishness, greed, and manipulation. So if I doom the Alamecha we know by doing what’s right, that’s fine with me. The world we create will be so much more, and we will figure things out as we go.”
“You won’t announce anything today, right?” Inara asks.
“I won’t announce a single thing until after the inauguration.”
Cue the chorus of relieved sighs. They all have time to try and talk me out of these changes before I make them official.
I hold up my hand. “I welcome your feedback in the confines of this room. In fact, I demand that you share with me what’s on your mind. Absolute honesty is what I want from my Council. But when we’re in public, you will not question me. Speaking against any of these changes will be grounds for immediate removal. And if you don’t stop, I’ll consider it treason. Is that clear?”
Mouths click shut and heads nod all around me.
“Will you be naming a Consort?” Larena asks. “Because I’ll need to prepare the Consort’s chambers.”
I shake my head. “No Consort yet.”
“With Judica gone,” Inara says, “your Heir is Melina.”
Shoot. I hadn’t considered that.
“She’s not . . . strictly reliable.” Inara shifts in her chair. “It would be wise to name a Consort soon.”
“Duly noted,” I say.
“What do we plan to do about Judica?” Franco asks.
I let her go after failing to kill her, and then she disappeared. I have no idea whether she fled, or was taken, whether she’s alive, or dead. I don’t know whether to send out search parties, or prepare for attack.
“I ask for honesty, and I’ll give it in return,” I say. “I probably made a mistake in sparing her life, and I certainly made a mistake in not detaining her in a holding cell. But what’s done is done. I’ll be spending quite a lot of time with Edam to discuss our next steps, and Balthasar to discuss our military assets in anticipation of a retaliation by my sister.”
“You admit that you’ve opened us up to war with that rash, ill-conceived decision?” Franco asks. “And yet, you have no intention of altering course from other, far worse, decisions?”
Edam scowls, clearly ready to jump in and protect me. But I don’t need his protection from my own Council. And if Franco is saying it to my face, others will be thinking the exact same thing. I far prefer someone who tells me his concerns to someone who foments discord behind my back.
“We’ve been at risk for war from the moment my mom was murdered. Didn’t you see the other families licking their chops, salivating over Alamecha like a wolf circling an injured deer?”
Franco drops his gaze.
“I’m only seventeen, and I’m not perfect. None of us are. I’m going to do my very best, and you’ll tell me when you think I’m making the wrong call. Then I’ll decide, and we will all live with it.”
“Since you aren’t naming a Consort,” Marselle says softly, “you should prepare yourself for the other families to be unbelievably annoying, thrusting their eligible sons at you until you name one.”
“Yes, the ambassadors at court are about to get much younger and better looking,” Inara says. “Thanks for that, at least.”
I lift one eyebrow. “Hardly. They’ve sold all their sons.”
Inara tuts. “Not quite. The empresses sell their sons, mostly, but many of their siblings don’t. So there will be quite a few sons of other royal members of the family who would be excellent matches. If you haven’t made your choice yet, be prepared for the parade of man-meat.”
I hope she’s exaggerating.
“I think we’ve covered enough ground for today. You should all begin sussing out what needs to be done in your particular sections, and tomorrow morning we’ll meet again to prepare for the inauguration. Seven a.m. sharp.”
When I stand up, Duchess hops to her feet too. Edam follows us through the doorway, the two guards stationed outside following us at a distance of ten feet. “You handled that exceptionally well.”
“You think so?”
“Absolutely,” he says. “You didn’t get rattled, and you’ve begun establishing a level of trust. Excellent initial foray for a new queen.”
“That’s good to hear, because I have no idea what I’m doing, and now I’m panicked that my changes will crumple Alamecha like a house of cards.” I reach the door to Mom’s room and freeze in front of it.
“You’re brilliant, and brave, and merciful,” he says, “and you’ll figure out how to make these things work without breaking what your mother created. I know you will.”
I swallow. “I hope your faith is not misplaced.”
“It’s not.” Edam reaches for my hand and then drops his back at his side. “Are you going into her room?”
“Mhmm.”
“Okay.” Edam leans against the door. “Well, if we’re hanging outside for a bit, may as well take care of some housekeeping.”
I meet his eye. “About what?”
“If Frederick is head of your guard, but I’m in charge of security for the island, am I able to add guards to your detail?”
I roll my eyes. “Freddy will do fine handling my personal guards.”
Edam’s eyes burn into mine. “Fine isn’t good enough.”
“You two are cut from the same fabric.” I glance at the guards behind us and lower my voice. “He already wants to beef up the guard and double the number on duty at all times. He’s been analyzing the lists of guards to make sure the two on duty dislike one another heartily. He thinks it will increase their motivation and vigilance.”
Edam bobs his head. “I agree. I’m happy to coordinate with him and pass off some of the better men on my force to help with that.”
“Oh come on. I don’t need two of you.”
“Clearly you feel safe, standing in the hallway, too nervous to go inside your mother’s room.”
I close my eyes and see her body on the floor of the ballroom, blood streaming from her nose and mouth to form a puddle around her. And then a barrage of memories flood my brain: choosing clothing, eating snacks on her bed while we watch human television programs, training together in our private courtyard. The memories stream on and on and on.
“I’m sorry I said anything,” Edam says.
“It’s not about feeling safe from outside threats,” I whisper. “I miss her so much that going into her room hurts.”
“Take your time,” Edam says. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“You have work to do,” I say.
“You’re higher priority than all of that.” He takes my hand in his and we stand together in front of Mom’s door for several minutes.
Finally, I’m calm enough to push the door open and walk through. The massive stainless steel doors to her records sanctum in the corner looms larger than I remember. It’s several feet wider than her spacious closet, and the entry pad outside the door face beckons me. I have what I need to enter, but I’ve been putting it off. Because no one but the current empress enters. I don’t feel very regal, but that’s not my hang-up, not really.
If I go in there, Mom is really gone.
“Thank you Edam. I needed the support.”
“Anytime, anywhere, against anyone,” he says.
I wish he could follow me inside, tell me what to do. Help me comb through the paperwork. “This part, I have to do alone.” I walk across the room until I’m standing in front of the bio-scanner plate for the huge doors.
“I’ll be out here, making sure you aren’t bothered.”
“Thanks.” I press my hand on the bio scanner and a larger panel emerges from the wall. I press Mom’s staridium ring into it. Then I key in Mom’s code. Divinity.
The locks tumble and then come to rest. I twist the huge four-pronged wheel and the door creaks and groans as it opens. I glance back at Edam, and he smiles at me. “You’ve got this.”
More than seeing mother dead, or fighting and defeating my sister, or even finding Mom’s ring, walking into the records room feels final. Mom will never train or teach or tutor me again. I blink as I enter the room. I’m prepared for it to be dark, windowless, and lead lined. Mom told me about some of the precautions to keep the records safe and they sounded extreme, excessive even. I imagined the room as a dark, dry, weatherless place. As if to compensate for the climate controls, the total lack of sunlight, the shield from sounds, nearly blindingly bright lights run up either side of the long room. Thousands and thousands of volumes of books and journals line the walls from the wood floors to the top of the ten foot ceiling.
I would have put this task off for weeks and weeks, but we have no real leads for Mom’s killer. Zero. Which means my best hope for a clue is right here, in Mom’s own letters and notes. With her funeral tomorrow, followed by my inauguration, I’ve got an excellent opportunity to confront many of those who were here for her birthday party.
I need to know where to apply pressure.
I sit in her leather wing chair and open the journal resting on the center of her desk. I scan through several days, noting that she records a surprisingly high level of detail about each day. What surprises me most is the amount of time spent on her feelings, her plans, and her hopes. I stop reading periodically to close my eyes and imagine her face. My memories, combined with her notes, bring her to life in a way she hasn’t been for me since she passed away. Then one passage catches my attention.
I suspect that someone may be poisoning me.
I drop the book like it burned me. She suspected. Of course she did, but why didn’t she take action? Why not tell me? Why not eliminate all sources of any possible poison? I force myself to pick up her journal again.
I can’t be sure, of course. Job ran a standard blood panel on me recently and found nothing, but I feel. . . suboptimal. My appetite is declining along with my energy level. I’ve spent quite some time reading mother’s, grandmother’s, and great-grandmother’s accounts of their last few years. Most of my symptoms are also common symptoms of age, but I’m not yet nine-hundred. If I’m already aging, that doesn’t spell good things for Alamecha’s bloodline. Perhaps any suspicion of poison is merely wishful thinking. Perhaps I’m not suffering from any poison other than the ticking of time.
The next entry is dated ten days prior to her death.
I’m not being poisoned after all. My fatigue, my appetite shifts and my body aches have an explanation. A happy one, in fact. Against all odds, something strange and wonderful has happened.
I’m pregnant.
I want to tell the father, but I don’t know how he’ll take it, and then I’ll have to explain too many other things. I might be better off letting him assume it isn’t his. I can’t even quite bring myself to write his name. I’ll examine my reticence about this later. But for now, I’m more optimistic than I have been for a long time.
It sounds terrible, but I’m most excited about this baby for the hope that it might heal things between Judica and Chancery. Their anger and inability to get along pains me more deeply than any other wound of my long life. I would give almost anything to repair their relationship. A new heir would free them both and clean up the fallout from my decision to spare Chancery.
If it’s a girl, I’m going to name her Sotiris, because she could be their salvation.
The next six pages have been torn out. I search for loose pages all over her desk and in drawers with no luck. Why would she tear out the rest? It had to be Mom who did it, since she’s the only one who had access to this room.
I don’t find the missing sheets, but I stop in front of a framed papyrus scroll. The prophecy.
In time of great peril, when the lives of women and men shall fail, the Eldest shall survive certain death to unite the families. She comes in a time of blood and horror, in a world overrun with plague and warfare. She shall command the stone of the mountain, be it small or large. Its power shall destroy the vast hosts arrayed against it. With the might and power of God, the Eldest shall destroy all in her path and unite my children as one. Only through her blood can the stone be restored to the mountain. Together, with the strength of her strongest supporter, she shall open the Garden of Eden, that the miracle of God shall go unto all the Earth to save my children from utter destruction.
Utter destruction. I close my eyes. I want nothing to do with this. Why couldn’t Judica have been born before me? I don’t want to be the Eldest, and I definitely don’t want to destroy anything in my path. But I fear I’ve already fulfilled the first prong. Or at least, everyone seemed to think that fighting Judica would lead to my certain death, and yet, here I am. Maybe the destruction referred to the bomb I stopped from hitting China. Wouldn’t that be nice?
Somehow, I doubt it.
Or maybe this entire thing was some whacked out delusion that people fixated on wrongly. That would be a lot of pressure off. . . Perhaps my rule will be uneventful and peaceful. Of course, if it’s not true, then my drastically sweeping social and political changes might all fail. My position as ruler at all might be a tremendous mistake, if I’m not the Eldest like Mom thought. Judica is certainly better equipped to handle things from a competency standpoint.
How old is this prophecy, exactly? Without thinking about it, I take the frame off the wall and carry it over to the desk.
Before I can set it down to look at it closer, something flutters to the ground from the back. A white envelope.
I lean down to pick it up, but my hand stops, hovering over the words scrawled across the front in my mom’s handwriting.
Chancery Divinity Alamecha
2
Mom wrote me two letters? Or was this a rough draft before she mailed the other one to Alora? If this is new advice, helpful information on how to rule, I really should have come in here days ago, before my confrontation with Judica or my selection of individuals for my Council.
I pick up the envelope, my fingers caressing the pressed paper. It’s thick, like there’s more than one page inside. I clear a space in the center of Mom’s desk, and then I sit down before my unsteady knees fail me. I ought to rip it open. I have so many other things to do that I need to prioritize, but I can’t. In fact, now that it comes down to it, I can’t bring my fingers to open it at all.
Because this is probably the very last time I’ll feel a direct connection from my mom straight to me. The last time she’ll counsel me, or guide me, or help me pull sanity from the tangle of life. Her funeral is in the morning, and this letter feels like a hand from the grave, a final reprieve from the bone-crushing weight of ruling the first family.
Or what if it’s not? What if it’s nothing more than a seating chart for my party? Or a list of things I need to train harder to learn? Or what if it’s a sequence of stupid milestones like walking or mastering basic melodics harmonies, and the dates I hit them? It could be something inane, something irrelevant, something that doesn’t matter. But it was hidden in a strange place for something of no value. Ultimately, the only way I’ll know what Mom had to say is to open it.
My fingers tremble when I slide them under the flap of the envelope.
I force it open, slicing the pad of my finger in the process. Nothing in front of me even seems real as blood drips on the pristine white linen of the envelope. I’m no stranger to injury, but this reminds me of Mom’s death for some reason. Unexpected, startling, juxtapositional. Mom was so energetic and pristine and perfect, and then, without warning, she was blood soaked and lifeless, almost from one blink to the next, just like my blood blossoming against this immaculate and snowy paper. Suddenly the whole thing feels wrong, like some kind of warning, some kind of foreshadowing of peril.
I drop the missive on the desk. I was fine before I found this message. I’ll be fine without it.
The wall of recent journals beckons me. Mom labeled them on the spine, so I snag the second most recent one, immediately predating the one I just read. Maybe I’ll find some clues to people who were angry at Mom or upset with one of her rulings.
I grab a notebook and jot down the names of the people from the first journal who could be angry. Dozens of people whose lives she adjudicated make the list. All of Lark’s extended family, including Lark herself. Although, she was personally locked up most of the day that Mom was poisoned, so I doubt she’s the culprit. On top of which, Lark’s family didn’t have a motive until the day before Mom died. Job says it took two poisons, one of which had been administered for at least weeks prior. That makes Lark’s family extremely unlikely to have caused her death.
