Kjell.
It was all I could think of, but Lady Firi nodded.
“The Lords may wait for the king to be laid to rest. But if the battle in Firi continues and Kjell is unable to accompany the king’s body back to Jeru City, the funeral must take place without Kjell. There are precedents and rituals that must be followed.”
There wouldn’t be a body. Tiras was gone, but he wasn’t dead. I had to believe that.
And if he doesn’t . . . return?
Lady Firi eyed me sharply. “Kjell?”
I hadn’t been talking about Kjell, but I nodded anyway, her suggestion turning my stony heart to molten fear. What if neither of them returned?
“Then you will have some decisions to make. Do you want to be queen?” she asked softly. “You are carrying the heir, but . . . perhaps the wisest thing to do is to let the lords have their way.”
And what might that be? What do the lords want?
“Control. Power.” She shrugged. “And Tiras has not been especially malleable.”
If I am found unfit . . . who will replace me?
“The council might name your father regent. You would still be queen, but he would be the true ruler. Your child would still be heir when it comes of age. If it lives that long. Of course, you could take another husband . . . someone who could provide a buffer and a . . . voice.” She spoke gently, but I heard a whisper of mockery, of doubt, escape her thoughts. I didn’t know if the scorn was aimed at me or at the constraints placed on all women in Jeru.
What would you do, Lady Firi?
Her eyebrows rose in surprise. “Me?” She laughed and shook her head, but her eyes gleamed, and her mouth tightened briefly. When her eyes met mine again, they were flat and hard.
“I would resist them. Wait. Stall. And when the time is right . . . make your move.”
When the trumpets sounded at sundown, I returned to my chambers and huddled in the king’s wardrobe, pulling his clothes around me, drawing his scent into my lungs and holding him there. But the words still found me, and for two hours the royal crier threw his announcement into the sky, declaring the king’s death to the citizens of Jeru.
“His Majesty, King Tiras of Jeru and Lord of Degn, is dead. King Tiras was mighty in battle and strong in both spirit and body. He was righteous and just. Jeru weeps and Degn mourns. Our lady queen has declared Penthos upon the city for seven days. In this time of mourning, there will be silence on the streets of Jeru. Citizens will return to your homes each day at sundown and there remain until sunrise,” the crier bellowed. “On the seventh day, the king will be raised up, that all may publicly mourn his passing. May the God of Words and Creation welcome his soul and protect our lands.”
As my father’s keep in Corvyn was the closest lordship to Jeru City, he was the first lord to arrive at the castle. I received him in the library, poised, expressionless, and filled with dread. He strode in, cape flying, hands wringing, eyes conspiring. He didn’t sit in the chair across the desk but waited for my guard to step outside and close the heavy door. I didn’t fear for myself in my father’s presence. My mother had given me that much.
“They will seek to kill you, Daughter,” he said without preamble. He didn’t specify who “they” were, but I knew. I indicated the chair with an open palm and waited until he tossed himself into it with restless elegance, sweeping his cape to the side so he wouldn’t wrinkle it.
I knew he couldn’t hear my voice, so I made no attempt to speak. Instead I scratched out a primitive message and placed it in front of him. It was odd to be communicating at all. He had always treated me like an ugly but priceless heirloom—something to be kept, preserved, and hidden in a corner.
I die, you die.
He read it and pushed it aside. “The council does not know. They are disdainful of the Gifted. They would not believe Meshara’s prophecy, and if they did believe, the knowledge may not deter them.”
I despised my weakness in writing, my childish letters and my simple words, but it was all I had. I used the paper once more.
I am with child.
He stared at me with growing horror. “All the more reason for them to kill you,” he gasped. His thoughts screamed, “Stupid girl. Stupid, stupid girl.”
Kjell of Jeru, the king’s brother, is next in line for the throne, I wrote, my hand shaking, my eyes burning. It took me so long to form the sentence that my father grew impatient and yanked the paper from beneath the quill the moment I finished.
He read my words and scoffed. “I know nothing of this.”
I took out a new piece of parchment and formed a response.
The king acknowledged him.
My father’s jaw dropped, and for a moment he was silent, words snapping around him like sparks before he ran a thin hand over his face and slumped in his chair.
“The council will be livid.”
I pulled the parchment close and painstakingly summarized the situation. I die, my child dies. I die, you die. I die, Kjell is king.
My father was quick to come to his conclusion. “You must make me regent, Daughter. The lords will agree. You will be safe. Your child will be safe.”
I studied him quietly, my eyes on his, my mind full of questions, full of words it would take me a lifetime to write. I thought about Corvyn and the forests I’d grown up in. I could go back. I could raise my child. I could give up all claim to the throne. I had no desire to rule, and without desire there was only . . . duty. I closed my eyes and dropped my chin to my chest. Then I dipped my quill and wrote out my simple confession.
I never wanted to be queen.