The Queen's Bastard (37 page)

No.

Javier had told her she was the only one like himself. Belinda had recognized almost immediately that her father, too, was like them, but Javier had spoken freely of having no guidance, only his own sense of self to show him the way.

Robert didn’t know.
The thought came with startling clarity. Her father, who seemed to Belinda to be always in control,
did not know
that the prince of Gallin was witchbreed. Had he known, he would have influenced Sandalia through her son rather than insert Belinda into the realm. It was what Belinda herself would have done, and her father was far more calculating than she. Javier lay outside Robert’s realm of influence, and that meant he, even more than Sandalia and her ambitions, stood as a threat to Aulun.

A chill of curiosity lifted bumps on Belinda’s skin as she thought of other royal scions, and wondered how many of them were their father’s children, and what purpose they served if they were not.
Her
purpose was clear: as the hidden daughter of Aulun, she was a secret weapon, trained to protect a throne that stood on the faith of a new religion. Ivanova, openly Irina’s daughter, could hold no such position in her mother’s court; she had been born in wedlock, if on the wrong side of the sheets, and no one would question her heirship. But that in itself could be a purpose, if Ivanova could be controlled and influenced through witchpower. An unbreachable Khazarian alliance would strengthen Aulun immeasurably.

Belinda shuddered in a breath through her fingers, then spread her hands wide, staring at her palms. Echon’s fate lay in her hands more thoroughly than even Robert imagined.

Excitement darted through her, testing her external stillness like a hummingbird in search of life-giving nectar. She kept it locked within, golden witchpower cloaking her against all comers as she considered her needs. Foremost, always foremost, was to find proof of a plan against the Aulunian throne, but beneath that now lay the task of discovering who had fathered Javier de Castille. To learn, in short, what other players influenced Echon’s royal families by way of the base side of a marriage bed.
It cannot be found out
thrummed in the back of her mind, her father’s lifelong warning, and she thought that even if she had the means to ask, Robert might withhold that answer from her. She had often asked questions and rarely had them answered—that lesson had been learned early on. Better to discover what she could on her own and, armed with knowledge, come to her father with details that shone light on Sandalia’s indiscretions and shattered Javier’s claim to a trio of thrones.

To do otherwise was to question her own existence, focused and purposeful as it had been, and even with power growing inside her with its own ambition for dominance, Belinda did not doubt herself or her place in the world. And even if—alien thought, difficult to so much as endure, much less truly consider—even if she were somehow to be brought into the light as her mother’s daughter, every step toward securing Aulun’s future secured her own. The truth of Javier’s heritage would inevitably help fashion that security.

It would take more than a hint. Belinda’s head spun, glee rushing through her veins in sparks of golden light. The extraordinary potential of what lay before her threatened to burst her self-imposed calm, and she didn’t care. It would take more than whispers to properly bring down the Gallic regent and her son. She would need proof of Sandalia’s infidelities, and a wise queen would have done away with proof.

Belinda uncurled a slow smile at her palms. Sandalia had let one shred of proof go: Javier himself. Knowing what to look for, the rest could be done. Not by anyone, perhaps, but by Belinda, with her burgeoning gift for stealing thoughts and influencing emotion. It could be done, and when it was done, Ecumenic Echon would be in shambles, and Lorraine’s Reformation throne safe for years to come.

Javier would never forgive her. Belinda swayed at the thought, letting her hands close into loose fists again. He, who had unleashed her witchpower and her heart, he who believed that above all Belinda wished to see him safely enstated on the Lanyarchan throne, he who was heir to half of Echon, would not forgive her if she so utterly destroyed his world. Nor should he. Belinda closed her eyes, regret lancing through delight until her heart hung in her chest again, aching with unfamiliar choice. Her duty was obvious.

And she would not shirk it. Nails dug into her palms and she let go a soft cry, deliberately forgoing stillness to revel in brief pain. To serve Aulun, to serve Lorraine, she would destroy Javier and with him the precious sense of belonging.

Unless she could convince him it was the only way. Dismissive laughter rose in her even as the idea formed. It was, perhaps, the only way for her, but she was a child of another realm, both in country and in heart. The few moments she would spend at Javier’s side in the eyes of all Echon would fade and disappear beneath a lifetime of duty serving Aulun. Beatrice Irvine might briefly be remembered; Belinda Primrose would never exist.

Irritation surged through stillness, an unexpected rise of emotion. Belinda clamped it down, thoughts half bent to scolding the witchpower within her. Identifying the ambition that using power woke in her made it easier to draw back from it, though it rose more quickly each time she drew heavily on the gift Javier had teased to life. Its fire was only semi-welcome: Belinda craved the skills it brought, the ability to hide and influence, but shied from the raw sense of injustice it carried with it. She had accepted with open eyes and a clear mind her place in the world as Lorraine’s natural child, and to find a part of herself boiling with resentment and striving for a place among the stars was uncomfortable and distressing. It made her wonder at her own beliefs, whether she was content with the lot she’d been handed, when a lifetime of knowing who and what she was had never troubled her before.

“It’s still too early.”
Dmitri’s voice, heard through a child’s pretense at sleep. She had been nine then, truly no more than a child. Perhaps now, at twenty-two, she was still come too early to her gifts; perhaps that was why Robert had never removed the barriers in her mind. But the witchpower that pooled in her mind told her otherwise: it had wakened her to Dmitri’s arrival in Khazan, and overwhelmed her at the tavern in Aria Magli. Robert might yet believe that her magic should go untested and untrained, but that was a rare mistake on her father’s part. True power would not be forever contained, and it had broken free outside of his influence and in its own time.

And so, too, Belinda thought, would she, if it were necessary in shaping Gallin’s fall and Aulun’s rise.

Skirts gathered, she finally stepped free of shadow and slipped down the hall to her lover’s chambers.

A
KILINA
P
ANKEJEFF
, D
VORYANIN
14 November 1587         
         Lutetia

There is something wrong with the guardsman.

Akilina chose him at random out of Gregori’s ranks, once the death services were attended to. She chose him for his rough-hewn good-looks and a tendency toward cleanliness that most of his brethren didn’t seem to share, and that, she realises now, is what’s wrong. His thick hair looks greasy, his brown eyes bright with fever. Sweat stands against swarthy skin and trickles into his beard, and she thinks she can smell him, even from half a room away. It’s not like him, and a combination of curiosity and disgust compels her to snap her fingers and gesture him toward her. “Lutetia doesn’t agree with you…?”

“Viktor, my lady,” he supplies without resentment, though she’s sure she’s asked before. His gaze flickers to the side, unwilling to meet hers. That would be proper, except for the skittishness she sees in him.

“Look at me, Viktor.” Command suits her voice well. Viktor draws his shoulders back, coming to full attention and bringing his eyes to hers. “Lutetia disagrees with you?” she asks again. “You’ve kept close to me since we’ve arrived, and you look ill.” It’s only as she says it that Akilina realises it’s true. In the handful of days she’s been at Sandalia’s court, of all the guards, Viktor has never been far from her side. Even when weariness must have had him wanting his rest, he’s been nearby. Delight curves her mouth and she considers him again, this time as a cat might a morsel. He needs bathing—God, he needs bathing!—but he’s broad of shoulder and if there’s a thickness to him through the hips, all the better; fragile men have never been to her taste.

That thought, inevitably, brings the pale, ginger-haired Javier to mind. He is beautifully shaped, though his slender body makes Akilina think of a boy not yet grown to a man’s form. She has little doubt of his male assets, but now isn’t the time to explore that road. Not with news of his engagement coming so quickly on the heels of Akilina’s arrival that she might think it deliberate if she didn’t know better. As it is, an alliance with the little Lanyarchan girl strikes Akilina as enormously funny, and she has every intention of remaining in the Gallic court long enough to watch the romance play out. There will, after all, be pieces to pick up afterward, and Akilina fancies herself something of an expert at puzzles.

Which brings her back to Viktor’s attentiveness. It seems a simple puzzle, to be sure, but pleasing to unravel regardless. “Are you unwell?” Heartsick? she wants to ask, but it’s far more entertaining to play it out and see if the man condemns himself with his own tongue. A guard ought not look so high as a noblewoman, though should her eye fall so low he dares not turn away. Such is the narrow path offered to the lower classes, and Akilina enjoys making a man walk its balance.

“Not ill, my lady,” Viktor replies, but he sounds uncertain of himself. Akilina cocks an eyebrow and leans forward, arching her throat as she smiles up at him. His gaze falls to her breasts and then jerks away again, more caution in him than many a man bothers to show.

“Too little sleep, then.” She traces a finger along her jaw, then down the line of her throat, watching Viktor struggle with where to put his eyes. “You’ve been near me my every waking hour, Viktor. Do you watch over me while I sleep, as well?”

“Yes, my lady.” Viktor’s voice has gone hoarse and he struggles not to watch as Akilina idly follows the curve of her own breast, mounded against corsets. The attempt is valiant, and she would admire him for it if it didn’t amuse her so much.

“And why do you watch me so closely, guardsman?” Viktor’s erection is plain to see against his pants. It’s a shame he’s so badly in need of a bath, or the afternoon might take a far more entertaining turn than Akilina had anticipated.

Viktor, thickly, says, “She told me to,” and Akilina’s hands grow chilly, ceasing their exploration of her body. The afternoon, it seems, will yet provide some entertainment.

“She?” That Sandalia would put a spy on her is to be expected. That she’d choose one of Akilina’s own people is both audacious and foolish: the strain of surveillance is a thing to be worked up to, to be taught, not dropped into the lap of an amateur. It explains Viktor’s failing health and his sharp scent; he is absolutely unprepared for this kind of work.

“Rosa,” he answers, then draws his eyebrows down heavily and passes a hand over his face. “Rosa,” he says again, but there’s uncertainty in his voice. Akilina stands, moving closer to him even though doing so causes her to hold her breath.

“Who is Rosa, Viktor?” The command is gone from her voice, leaving gentleness. He seems close to breaking, this strong Khazarian guard, and it would be a shame for him to shatter before she understands the game he’s been drawn into.

“Prince Javier’s woman,” he responds, and Akilina’s astonishment blooms into laughter.

“Javier’s woman, as you so crudely put it, is Beatrice Irvine, some ignoble gentry from Northern Aulun.
She
set you to spying on me?”

“Rosa told me to,” Viktor says stubbornly, and something in his gaze clears, fever pitch fading as he turns a glower on Akilina. It’s a moment before he seems to realise whom he’s scowling at, and then he shakes himself and drops his gaze. “I’m sorry, my lady.”

“Viktor.” Akilina puts a fingertip beneath his chin and forces his head up again. “Lady Irvine reminds you of a Rosa?” This is fine stuff: a guardsman in lust with a lady. Better yet, the prince’s woman. Akilina could have his head for it, and make it a gift to Gallin.

Viktor, it seems, ceases to care that Akilina is his mistress, and turns the full force of frustrated anger on her, black eyebrows drawn low over dark eyes. There’s desperation in him, a broken understanding that bleeds from his gaze. The fever is back, burning in him. “I’ve swivved the bitch, my lady,” he snaps, and even as he speaks it’s clear he doesn’t know how what he says can be, but that he believes it with every fibre of his being. “She more than reminds me. I’d swear on my own grave that she’s the same bit that warmed my bed and Count Gregori’s in the days before he died.”

Heat and cold slip over Akilina’s body like a lover, raising queasiness instead of passion. It fades in seconds, leaving heart-palpitating excitement in its place. “Viktor, Viktor, Viktor.” Akilina covers his lips with her fingertip and steps closer still, risking staining her gown with his sweat. “If you are not right, darling Viktor, it will indeed be your grave you swear on. Now tell me,” she breathes. “Tell me everything.”