Daughters of Ruin (12 page)

“Unto the throne of Meridan, the chair of Declan the Giver—” they said.

Suki struck a surly pose and mouthed the oath.

Is she even speaking?

“—on the occasion of the Treaty of Sister Queens—”

Did Suki scoff?

No one else seemed to notice but Rhea.

Iren murmured the words in her half-present monotone.

“—at the close of the War of Epiphany Rising and the unification of the four kingdoms of Pelgard—”

Of the three, only Cadis stood and declared as a queen and general ought to have done.

But is she playacting? Wouldn't anyone half as clever as Cadis insist on her loyalty if she intended to stab in the dark?

“—we queens pledge allegiance—”

And they stepped forward, one at a time, dressed in their colors, both hands on their hearts.

Suki, in a yellow summer gown embroidered with the roots of the bituin tree at the hem, up into branches that curled and twisted like flames. She had fought their seamstress like a banshee eel to have a red dress. “Red was the color of Tasan's empire before Meridan was even a wilderness post.”

Of course, it had been such a grave insult to make her wear the
other
color of Tasan so that Rhea could wear red.

Suki gathered herself up, held her chin aloft. “I, Suki, empress-apparent of the ancient and glorious kingdom of Tasan, born third to Empress Reiko and Emperor Niran, first in line of succession before two who remain, crowned by the will of Ysvin, the creator, do so pledge.”

Declan nodded from his throne, rose, and stepped down from the dais.

Suki flinched as he approached, but no one else seemed to notice.

A servant stood by, holding a jeweled case. Declan reached into the case and took the ring of royal succession—Tasan's signet ring. This year the jewel-smith had socketed another ruby into the image of the bituin tree, making ten in total.

Declan presented the ring back to Suki.

Her hand shook as he placed it on her finger—a stark reminder that he, king of Meridan, had given her the right to rule. And each year at the Revels a new gem would be added, until the thirteenth year, when the signet rings would be whole again.

Three more years of this
, thought Rhea.

Three more years of Suki inserting insults into her pledge.
Rhea knew she had written in “ancient and glorious” to describe Tasan because she constantly called Meridan “upstart and artless” by comparison. It was a knife intended only for Rhea to notice.

Can we possibly make peace and become sisters in that time?

Is this a complete farce?

Iren stepped forth, stared at the floor mosaic, and spoke.

The crowd leaned in to hear.

“I, emira-apparent of Corent, Iren, daughter of Malin, provost and first magister of the academy, and King Gamol, who set aside his crown to take his personal guards to the field and serve as wartime magister—who was slain—do so pledge.”

Iren too?

Is she also conspiring to humiliate the king?

Did they write those vows together this year?

And was the purpose to lay all the dead of a tragic war at the feet of my father?

He was the architect of the treaty. Do they not credit him peace?

Iren never spoke of her father's foolhardy decision to enter the fray.

The Corentine hailed it as the magister's ultimate duty, to act as a medic for his people. But Hiram scoffed in private. “He was an idealistic old professor in love with an idea and surprised when the sword in his belly wouldn't yield the floor for a scholarly rebuttal.”

Declan made no sign of disapproval as he reached into the box and retrieved the signet ring of Corent.

The socketed sapphires that formed the windows of the tower emblem glinted in the candlelight. Declan placed the ring on Iren's finger. A few noblewomen sighed at the sight. Many still aimed for the seat beside Declan. Widower since Rhea's birth. “A wifeless king is a motherless kingdom,” prattled Doyenne Sprolio often. She had a granddaughter only five years Rhea's senior to present.

It was truthism, too obvious.

A king without a queen was a kingdom without a mother.

But is it also an appraisal?

Are motherless countries somehow less?

Rhea knew she would rule in converse—a maiden queen.

None of the noble boys—with their fancy pomade, house-proud regalia, and their petty hierarchies—interested her.

Rhea was certain they wanted her only for her crown. Actually, in truth, she wasn't certain they wanted her at all. But if they did, it would be for her power. Why else would they compliment her on paper but in person stare constantly at Cadis?

Rhea had decided long ago that she would share a bed, but she would never share a throne.

She was completely numb to their presence. Except for Endrit.

And he was no possibility.

She could keep him, perhaps, at court.

They could find some private arrangement, a secret affair.

If she could stave off the demands of the lower houses.

If she was strong enough.

“I, Cadis, next in line to sit in the first chair of the Archon Basileus, among the equals of the guildmasters of the Findain Mercantile Exchange, daughter of Hector and Agathe, both lost to the endless sea, do so pledge.”

As always, a few nobles snickered at the humble titles of Findish traders. Cadis stood eye level to the king nonetheless.

Pantarelli, the jester, had been censured the previous winter for a song about Declan lusting after Cadis. Many a scandalous rumor passed between the eligible noblewomen of Meridan, that the king was grooming her to be his own—that the Protectorate itself was an elaborate mating ritual.

It was a disgusting idea for petty nobles to gossip about.

Rhea paid no attention to the whispering as Cadis received her ring from Declan. It could have just as easily been about the carriage of her shoulders.

Did she hold them back to push out her chest?

Or her blue dress.

Would any Meridan lady wear something so plain? Or so fitted?

Her face was battered still. The makeup couldn't cover the swelling. But even so, the men had plenty else to admire. Her valiant show with Iren had worked. The people seemed impressed; some seemed to have forgiven her entirely. Rhea had a begrudging respect for such expert maneuvering.

To Rhea it proved only that she was a secret rebel and a dirty traitor.

But for good or for ill, Cadis was always the one they talked about.

Rhea glanced at Endrit and caught him staring at Cadis.

Is he, too, obsessed with her?

Rhea almost missed her cue. She stepped forth and spoke, “I, Rhea, daughter of Declan the Giver, king of Meridan, champion of the War of Epiphany Rising, hero of the Battle of Crimson Fog, author of the Treaty of Sister Queens, and creator of the peace for all Pelgard, do so pledge.”

A raucous cheer erupted from the nobility and the king's guard, filling the vaulted ballroom. Rhea instinctively laughed—an expulsion of nerves, really.

And as her father approached with the signet ring of House Meridan, she could swear he smiled.

Rhea almost skipped as she returned from the dais, past her sisters, and toward a grinning Endrit. Of course, she didn't.

Her armory of jewels would jangle. And, of course, she didn't leap into his arms, though she wanted to. Too many heads would turn.

As if he had read her mind or body language as she bounded toward him and then pulled up short, Endrit scooped Rhea into his arms and gave her a long hug.

Did he hug anyone else as he hugged me?

Rhea felt her neck and cheeks flush, as doyennes all around the grand ballroom cast their aspersions.

Does it matter?

He smelled like jasmine and bituin oil. His shirt was the coarsest leather in the room, but warmed by his skin and softened by age. Rhea breathed as if for the first time all day, first even in a fortnight.

The Revels were finally over.

The one previous was finally behind her—or at least, the long year of shame and disappointment could begin to scab.

“Well done, Princess,” whispered Endrit.

Only a few hours ago, they had regaled everyone with the exhibition of the grimwaltz. No false steps and no misses.

They were a spectacle.

Their bodies moved in perfect motion together.

Rhea wondered if Endrit felt the connection as strongly as she did.

He must have.

It was as if they were two marionettes connected by the same strings.

Rhea wished for a god to turn them both into stone at that very moment. Instead Endrit put her down with a grunt. He rubbed his neck and said, “That necklace wasn't made for hugging.” He nodded at the onyx sunrays, each a sharpened stake.

My very own chastity belt
, thought Rhea. She turned and stood beside Endrit as her father gathered attention for the closing of the Revels.

“Good ladies, good men of Meridan, let us celebrate the end of our revelry.”

He was a perfect king from the storybooks, a man of the prime age—not a boy king and not a graybeard. He had a soldier's bearing and a scholar's presence. Hair the color of tar, with feathery white streaks.

“And welcome also to the emissaries of Findain—”

Rhea looked around and for the first time noticed a group of sun-browned men and women, all blond and unfashionably dressed, standing behind Cadis.

A diplomatic envoy?

They seemed uncomfortable to hold the attention of the room. Behind them lurked Magister Hiram, no doubt already begun in his maneuvering and negotiations on behalf of her father.

Endrit leaned over and whispered, “Here to take her home?”

Rhea snapped around to face him. Their noses nearly collided. She said, “What?” And then, with her volume under control, she added, “They can't take her. My father wouldn't let them.”

Her father continued his speech about each of the girls' achievements over the course of the year. He began with Cadis, notably, either to please the envoy or because she had the longest list.

Endrit and Rhea stared ahead but conversed from the sides of their mouths like conspirators, or children at the temple.

“They'll petition for it, certainly,” said Endrit.

“How would you know?”

“We low-living creatures all share a gutter—didn't you know?” He bumped her. His arm touched hers and made gooseflesh rise.

“I didn't mean that.”

“I'm only guessing,” said Endrit. “Word of a rebellion has spread. Everyone outside the keep is jumpy, and Findish caravans have diverted away from the midlands for fear of reprisals and mobs.”

“All the more reason for Cadis to stay,” whispered Rhea, “where the guards can protect her.”

“The Meridan guards are the worry,” said Endrit.

“Maybe they're here for another reason,” said Rhea. Endrit laughed under his breath. Rhea hoped he would bump her again, but it didn't come. She ventured a look. He caught her eye and winked.

“Maybe they're here to choose her suitor,” said Endrit.

“Can't be,” said Rhea. “In Findain, they marry for love.”

“Then maybe they're here to bring yours.”

Fear struck at Rhea's chest. The conjecture felt true. She gazed at the envoy, searching for one who might be suitable.

Would my father really match me with a Dain?

Is there some truth to their joke the night before?
She would prefer the noble Dain to the river rats, but just barely.

Endrit's snickering told her she had been played a fool.

Of course, he would never.

“I hate you,” said Rhea.

He didn't respond.
Does he think I meant it? Of course not. It was an obvious joke.

Her father commended Iren for her domestic arts and calligraphy. Rhea felt a hand push her to the side, away from Endrit. It was Suki, wedging herself between them. “Hi, Endrit!”

Doyenne Sprolio turned to give them a silencing glare. Next to her stood Don Sprolio, and beside him, Lazlo Sesquitaine, a pauncy young lord from the neighboring lands to House Sprolio. He had proposed once to Rhea, when they were nine years old, playing chase on the outer walls of the keep. She had laughed in his face. He had called Rhea's father a usurper. She'd slapped him. He'd pushed her. She'd demanded his head for her next birthday.

Her father only laughed, but House Sesquitaine had sent apologies by the wagonload.

Now Lazlo was as tall as a maypole, as thin, and with a beaky nose perfect for looking down. Surely he had come to court to ask her father a favor.
Could it be marriage again? Does he remember our fight so long ago?