Song of Blood & Stone (Earthsinger Chronicles Book 1) (21 page)

A foreboding cadence tapped out a rhythm in her head. It matched the gentle vibration of the caldera pulsing at her side.

Somber men in
dark suits with even darker expressions lined the streets. A few women were scattered among the group, as well, many waving hand-painted picket signs with slogans like
Wages not Witchcraft!
and
Feed the people not the refugees!

Jack’s motorcade wound its way back to the palace from the radio station. The speech he’d recorded would play tonight, but he’d lost any hope that it would make a difference. He did not begrudge the people their anger, if only they would focus it in the right direction. They wanted him to do something, but what did they expect? For him to pull food from the parched ground? Produce ships from thin air? Had they forgotten he was not an Earthsinger? They needed someone to blame for the misfortunes of late, and the Lagrimari refugees were simply convenient.

A smaller group of refugee supporters stood closer to the palace and lifted his spirits somewhat. Not everyone in his land was so callous. Then a woman with a sign reading
Why Now?
rapped on the window as the limo slowed for a sharp turn. Yes, why now? Why him?

When he reached the palace, he headed straight for his office, each step heavy. Perhaps he could take an unscheduled break and sneak off to see Jasminda. The thought brightened him. However, Nirall was waiting for him outside his office door, banishing all fantasies of sneaking away. The man’s normally jovial face was grim. Jack forced out a warm greeting and led him inside where Usher was tidying up.

“You’ve seen today’s paper, Your Grace?” Nirall asked.

That very paper was now in Usher’s grip. Jack suspected the valet of trying to remove it before Jack saw it. He held out his hand; Usher frowned before relinquishing it.

The front-page article featured an interview with an eyewitness to the massacre at Baalingrove who told how Jack had threatened one of his own men with a pistol in order to save the lives of a group of murderous settlers. The term “
grol
sympathizer” was used by the anonymous interviewee. Jack seethed. The settlers hadn’t done anything to deserve the farmers’ attack. He needed to call Benn to find out how the inquiry into the massacre was progressing. He’d heard little about it during his week in Rosira, though it hadn’t been far from his mind.

“What passes for journalism these days is offensive,” he said, tossing the paper to the ground. Usher picked it up.

Nirall shook his graying head. “I have no doubt this was just a soldier with an axe to grind, Your Grace, but this refugee business has the people on edge.”

“And they blame me? For seeking to punish those who would murder innocent men? For failing to turn away these threadbare women and children? Is that what the people are saying?”

“Your Grace, the people simply want to know that their Prince Regent and their Council hear their voices and have their best interests at heart. They’re afraid helping the refugees is taking away vital resources from our own people.”

“And the rest of the Council has their interests at heart?” Jack shook his head. “If we could get more of them to see reason . . .”

Jack closed his eyes, wearied of the task in front of him. Whenever he dropped his lids he saw Jasminda’s face smiling back at him and the thought soothed him. The cares of the world disappeared every evening in her arms, but he would have to wait. With his plans of seeing her early now thwarted, he longed for nightfall and the comfort of her touch.

“What do you think Alariq would have done?”

Nirall exhaled slowly. “He would have examined all sides of the issue very carefully. Measured them twice to cut once.”

A hint of a smile cracked Jack’s bleak face. “He would have measured them no less than four times. That’s why he was a good prince.”

Nirall leaned in, resting his elbows on his knees. Round spectacles and a gray-streaked goatee in need of trimming gave him a professorial air. “Alariq was also very good at deflecting.”

“How do you mean?”

“Sometimes, when people are up in arms about something, they need their attention to be redirected elsewhere.”

Jack frowned. “What could redirect them?”

Licks of fire reflected in the man’s spectacles, setting his eyes aglow. “The people have been displeased over the shortages for some time, but the royal wedding was going to be the perfect distraction. The right mix of glamour and austerity, of course, but an event to capture the public’s imagination all the same.”

With a sigh, Jack slumped further in his chair. “I’m sure that would have done the trick. It’s too bad they could not have wed. I hope Lizvette’s spirits are not too low.”

“She’s quite well. And she would still make a very fine princess.” Nirall’s gaze held Jack in its grip.

He was dumbstruck. Several moments passed before he could respond. “You can’t be suggesting . . .”

Nirall reached for Jack’s arm. “Our two families are still a good match. A strong princess will go a long way to improve your public perception. A wedding, an heir, it would be—”

“That is ludicrous!” Jack stood. “Lizvette loved my brother. How could I . . . It would be extraordinarily inappropriate, not to mention in very poor taste. I’m not sure how you could even think such a thing?”

Nirall stood and bowed his head. “I did not mean to offend you, Your Grace. I was simply trying to offer a potential solution.”

Jack backed away. “The title Minister of Innovation fits you too well. But this is outlandish. I could never do such a thing to the memory of my brother, nor to Lizvette.”

“You could honor him by maintaining his legacy. He chose my daughter for a reason, and you and she have always been friends. I do not believe the idea would be as unappealing to her as you think.”

Jack held up a hand. “Please stop. I do not want to hear any more of this. I cannot.”

“Forgive me, Your Grace. I won’t speak of it again.” Nirall bowed formally and took his leave.

Usher shut the door and came to stand by Jack’s side.

“Has everyone gone mad, Usher?” When he did not respond, Jack looked over. “What? You can’t think that lunacy makes sense?”

“Alariq was popular with the people. He had the luxury of waiting to marry. An unpopular man is aided by a well-loved wife.”

“Don’t spit platitudes at me, old man. How could she be well loved, jumping from one brother to the next?”

“Your grandmother did the very same thing to much regard when her first husband died. The people like continuity.”

“The people are idiots.”

Usher set a hand on Jack’s shoulder. “I’m sure the feeling is mutual.”

Jack scowled and shrugged off the contact. “I do not love her.”

“Many things will be required of you in your new position, young sir. Unfortunately, falling in love is not one of them.”

Jack’s gaze fell upon the newspaper. He stormed over to the bureau, snatched up the offending sheets, and threw them into the fire.

That afternoon a
different driver met Jasminda at the outer doors of the palace. He looked to be in his early thirties and greeted her with an affable smile. As she settled in her seat, instead of the stony silence she’d received from the first driver, this one asked about her day and commented on the probability of rain.

“What’s your name?” she asked, leaning forward in her seat. In the rearview mirror she noticed his eyes were a sparkling shade of green. She’d never seen eyes that color.

“I’m Nash, miss. Pleasure to meet you.”

“Have you lived in Rosira all your life?”

He chuckled. “Oh no, miss. I’m Fremian. I’ve been here . . . going on three years now. I reached master level in the Hospitality Guild, and when I passed my Level Ones—that’s the exam—I had my pick of positions. Most go to Yaly, but I’ve always liked living by the sea. I started in the resorts up north and let me tell you . . .”

Nash certainly wasn’t short on conversation. He regaled her with stories during the trip and told how he came to Rosira following a young lady who had eventually relented and agreed to marry him. Nothing in his manner indicated any suspicion or distaste for Jasminda.

“Nash, I’m sorry to interrupt, but are there many Fremians in Elsira?”

“Not so many, miss. A few servants in the palace and at the premiere vacation spots, some professors at the university, too, but the immigration laws are strict. Down in Portside, you’ll see folk from every corner of the globe working the ships, but they’re prohibited from entering other parts of the city.”

Nash’s native Fremia was a land that valued knowledge and excellence above all else. They had the best schools and universities and offered elite training in everything from art, to science, to warfare and hospitality. Around the world, no one was better at what they did—no matter what it was—than a Fremian.

“And do your people have any . . . opinions on the Lagrimari?”

He gave her a knowing smile. “Fremia has always been neutral, miss. We stay out of the conflicts of other lands.”

They reached the camp, and the town car slowed to a stop. Nash turned in his seat to face her. “It isn’t like here. So many people from all over the world come to study back home, we’re used to differences of all kinds. It must be hard living in a land with so much sameness that any deviation at all stands out.”

She nodded but couldn’t find her voice to respond. Nash sobered, then straightened his hat and exited to help her out of the vehicle.

“I shouldn’t be too long,” she said.

He tipped his hat to her. “Take as long as you like, miss.”

The warm feeling she had from her conversation with Nash faded as she approached the camp. Apprehension about the minuscule progress she’d made with the caldera made her steps heavy.

She paused, noticing activity at the entrance. A familiar-looking boxy vehicle was parked right next to the tents. When a woman in blue robes emerged from the back, Jasminda’s heart nearly stopped. Two Sisters wrestled with boxes at the back of the wagon, but she could not see their faces. The Sisters wrangled their load to the ground while soldiers stood several feet away, watching, not offering assistance of any kind. As much as Jasminda wanted to stay rooted to the spot, she could not.

“Do you need help?” she called out.

The women turned, startled. One was middle-aged with an austere face. The other was Aunt Vanesse. Jasminda’s throat closed up to be once again face-to-face with her, but no recognition sparked in her aunt’s eyes.

“That would be lovely,” the older woman said, her musical voice at odds with her strict appearance. “You speak Elsiran quite well.”

Jasminda peered into the back of the wagon and began unloading the heavy boxes. “It was my first tongue.” Her back was turned, so she could only imagine the women’s surprise.

She dropped her load and looked over. The older Sister’s brow was furrowed, but Vanesse’s expression was quite blank. Jasminda went to grab another box.

“How does that come to be?” the older Sister asked.

“My mother was Elsiran.” With a great tug, she slid a crate forward into her arms then turned to stack it with the others. Brushing off her palms, she chanced a glance at her aunt, whose face had grown ashen.

“Jasminda ul-Sarifor,” she said, holding out her hands. The older woman greeted her with a polite palm touch. Jasminda turned to Vanesse. After a moment’s hesitation, she too offered the greeting, pressing her cool hands against Jasminda’s.

“I’m going to see after that captain who promised the use of that dolly,” the older Sister said. “I can’t imagine where he’s gotten to.” She was off in a swish of blue fabric, leaving Jasminda alone with her aunt.

Vanesse stared at her mutely, recognition flaring in her eyes. Jasminda stared back. She was glad of the fine clothing Nadal had provided her with and resisted the urge to smooth out her navy-blue silk dress. Standing tall, Jasminda dared her aunt to deny her. The tension of the moment broke when Vanesse let out a gasp, almost like a sob, and rushed forward, wrapping her arms around her niece.

Jasminda was frozen in place as Vanesse squeezed tightly. “You look so much like her,” her aunt whispered into her hair.

“No, I don’t. But you do.” She found the strength to wrap her arms around her aunt and hold on as the woman continued to squeeze.

When Vanesse pulled back, tears were streaming down her face. She raised her hands to cup Jasminda’s cheeks. “No, I see her in you. Your chin, your forehead.” She stroked each part as she mentioned it, and the tears continued. Jasminda felt them welling in her own eyes, as well.

“Why did you never respond?” Jasminda spoke softly, uncertain she wanted to know the answer.

Vanesse released Jasminda and wiped at her eyes, sniffling. “Come, let’s sit.” She motioned to a log in the grass a few metres from the wagon. They settled in next to one another, and Jasminda studied the burn scars marring her aunt’s cheek and jaw.

Vanesse touched her face self-consciously and dipped her head. “Your grandmother did that.”

Jasminda’s jaw slackened as she struggled to comprehend a mother burning her own child. “Was it an accident?”

Vanesse let out a snort. “No. I was sixteen and she caught me with—” she looked over nervously at Jasminda “—someone she thought unsuitable.” After coming upon her aunt’s secret in the carriage house, Jasminda could imagine what sort of person her grandmother would find unsuitable.

“Emi had been gone for four years, sending us letter after letter. Mother would burn them, so I started going for walks to meet the postman so I could read them.” Her voice hitched. “Mother had told everyone Emi died of a fever out in the Borderlands, but Emi had written letters to her friends telling what really happened. Mother was incensed. So when it looked like I was going to end up an embarrassment, as well—” Vanesse’s gaze lengthened. She stared across the field towards the expanse of tents.

“When she came after me with the oil, I thought she wanted to kill me. She doused my bed and then lit the match before I even knew what was happening. Said she wanted to make sure no one at all would steal me away from her. No one would want me. I would never shame her the same way my sister did.” Vanesse’s hand fluttered near her face, never quite touching her scars.