Song of Blood & Stone (Earthsinger Chronicles Book 1) (17 page)

She glimpsed a well of pain inside him she had never seen before, one that tugged at her in a new way. And it made it all the more difficult when he kissed her good-bye and walked out the door.

The address Jasminda
had been writing to for the past two years was a fifteen-minute drive from the palace. Situated in an obviously well-to-do neighborhood, it sat midway up the steep incline of Rosira’s skyline. Two stories of butter-colored stucco, topped with a red-tiled roof, loomed over her. Bushes trimmed in perfect spheres decorated the tiny front yard. The breeze off the ocean rippled her hair as she exited the backseat of the town car Jack’s valet had provided for her.

A gated driveway led to a small carriage house in the back. She wasn’t prepared for the grandeur. The house was nowhere near the scope of the palace, but it was a far cry from the cabin she’d grown up in. Even the windows were ornate, rectangular at the bottom but arched at the top. How could Mama have lived here? Had she felt as stifled as Jasminda did simply looking at the home’s exterior? Or had she secretly longed for this life from her place in exile on the borderlands?

Jasminda stood before the massive, double wooden doors and ran her fingertips over the brass door knocker before raising it and rapping three times. While waiting for a response, she struggled to figure out what to say. No words had come to her in the days since she’d first thought of confronting her grandmother. Perhaps the words would find her tongue once the two were face-to-face.

The door opened, revealing a white-haired woman, not strict or severe in appearance as Jasminda had imagined, but plump and inviting with Mama’s golden eyes. Those eyes widened as they took in Jasminda from head to toe.

She tugged self-consciously at her dress. Nadal had arrived that morning with a stunning array of clothing for her to choose from, hemlines ranging from a respectable mid-calf to an eyebrow-raising above-the-knee. Beading, sequins, and tassels adorned the collection. But she had chosen the simplest frock, cream-colored and stylishly loose-fitting, with a waistline that grazed her hips. Now she wished she’d selected something fancier, something that screamed,
I’m staying in the palace and am the very close acquaintance of the Prince Regent.

Her grandmother’s gaze flicked to the shining auto parked in front, with the uniformed driver in place, then back to Jasminda in confusion.

Jasminda notched her head higher. “Olivesse Zinadeel?” she said.

“Yes?” Her grandmother’s voice was reedy, nothing like the rich tones of Mama’s.

“I’m Jasminda. Emi’s daughter.”

All the color drained from the old woman’s face, and she did another full body scan of Jasminda. Searching for similarities? There weren’t many to see on the outside. Everything that made Jasminda like her mother was on the inside. Her love of gardening and making things grow. Her thirst for knowledge and hunger for books. But she liked to think she was more practical than Mama had been, not as much of a romantic. Still, when her grandmother snapped her mouth shut and shook her head, pain cleaved her heart in two.

Olivesse’s color came back, and she winced as if pained by something. She took a step back.

“Please don’t come here again. I . . . I don’t have anything for you.” She took another step back and shut the door.

Jasminda swayed on her feet. For just a moment, heartache swelled, but then her anger rushed in full force. She banged on the knocker again, rhythmically, for so long her arm began to hurt. When that produced no results, she started hammering away at the door with her fists until they were raw and pulpy.

She cradled her arms to her chest and turned to see the driver in the front seat watching her curiously. Hitching up her chin, she turned back to the house, walking backward a bit to peer in the windows. They were all covered by curtains, offering no glimpse inside.

“I’ll be right back,” she told the driver before taking the path to the driveway. Beyond the house, the gravel drive slanted down quite steeply and ended in a quaint carriage house. The main house had a small backyard with a well-tended garden, each row completely free of weeds and labeled with little white wooden stakes.

She stood trying to imagine her mother here learning to garden from that woman inside, who was the storybook picture of what a grandmother should be, except, of course, for ignoring her grandchild. The windows in the back of the house were all shuttered or draped except for the glass doors leading to the garden.

Jasminda approached cautiously and peered inside. Dark hardwood floors were visible beneath finely woven rugs. Heavy, expensive-looking furniture sat atop them in rich colors and brocades. Her shoulders sagged as she took in what she could from her limited view. She did not bang on the door to request entry. She could break the glass and storm in, but the determination she’d felt moments before fled, leaving only sadness.

A creak sounded as the iron gate opened. Jasminda crouched beside a bush as a door slammed and then an auto pulled up to the carriage house. The driver emerged, a rather slim and short fellow with a black suit and hat, and opened the door for the passenger in the back. Jasminda’s breath caught. The woman coming out of the car was the scarred Sister who had aided the refugees at Baalingrove. It was indeed her Aunt Vanesse.

Vanesse looked back toward the house, and Jasminda held her breath, trying to remain motionless and unobserved. With a final anxious glance, Vanesse followed the driver into the carriage house using the side door. Jasminda peered behind her and darted to the side of the small structure. The door was closed, but a small window was uncovered.

Vanesse was not dressed in the robes of the Sisterhood today. Instead, she wore a knee-length skirt and silk blouse with a stylish fitted hat on her head. She removed her hat, placing it on a cluttered table. The driver had his back to Jasminda, but when he removed his hat, she froze and her breath hitched. The small man was really a woman, who shook out her shoulder-length locks and turned toward Vanesse.

With another furtive glance over her shoulder, Vanesse approached the driver, cupping the woman’s face in her hands and leaning in to kiss her. Jasminda dropped her eyes, guilty for spying on such an intimate stolen moment.

Jack invaded her mind, then—his lips against hers, his body pressed close, the hope that they would not be discovered. All the trouble that would bring.

This house, the wealth—Mama’s family obviously had a privileged place in society. What did they say about their long-lost eldest daughter? Jasminda knew better than to think they’d told the truth about Mama’s marriage to a settler and her half-breed children. They had probably killed her off in their lives long before her actual death. Maybe what her grandmother had slammed the door on wasn’t a real relationship with her flesh and blood kin but just a ghost. Jasminda felt like a ghost spying on her aunt from the shadows.

It seemed these sisters were alike in many ways. Was loving another woman so different from loving a Lagrimari? Both were taboo. And Jasminda was beginning to realize you couldn't choose who you loved.

The house where her mama had grown up looked different to her now. So many secrets, so many falsehoods and betrayals. Jasminda had wanted to make them see her, but did they even see themselves? She’d thought making her family acknowledge the lives of her brothers and her father was what she wanted, but now she just wanted to protect those memories and hold them close to her like armor. Not have them sullied by the cold eyes of a woman who had no regard for her.

She crept back around the house and climbed into the auto.

“Back to the palace, please. There isn’t anything for me here.”

As the Council
of Regents meeting bled into its fourth hour, Jack longed for nothing more than to be back in Jasminda’s arms. Her touch still shivered across his skin, and he could swear her scent suffused the air. If he did nothing else but listen to her soft breaths until the day he died, he would not consider it a wasted life.

The reality of the Council Room and the petty squabbling among a group of grown men was cold water thrown on his reverie. His temper flared at the intrusion. The Minister of Finance and the Minister of the Interior bickered like an old married couple and could be counted upon never to agree with each other. Even in a circumstance as dire as imminent war.

Alariq would have been able to follow this miserable meeting quite adeptly, and known just what to say to bring the petty quarreling to an end. It was, after all, what his brother had trained for his whole life. Military training had done nothing to dull Jack’s edges into a tool of political usefulness. His manner was ill-appreciated by the men. Minister Stevenot of the Interior sputtered like a flooded engine when Jack interrupted him.

“I do not want to hear another word about the allowable roof colors in East Rosira. They can paint them pink with blue dots for all I care!” Jack slammed his hand on the table; several of the old men jumped. “How much longer must we go on discussing this ridiculous minutiae? Objections to the fabric of the shipbuilder’s guild’s new uniforms? Reshodding the mounts of the dock guard? None of this will matter in mere days when the Mantle comes down, yet you all refuse to seriously discuss the most pressing issue.”

The faces around the table resembled fish, wide-eyed with their mouths opening and closing mutely.

“Your Grace,” Pugeros, the Minister of Finance, said, his face taking on a fatherly quality that held more than a little condescension. “Lagrimar has given no indication they plan to attack. And it has only been five years since the last breach. They have always needed far longer than that to build the dark magic needed to cross the Mantle.”

“Why would they warn us of an attack? I have seen their preparations, Minister.
I
am warning you. And the time between the breaches has grown shorter and shorter. They are finding new ways to use their
dark magic
,
as you call it
.
We need to inform the people, especially those near the border. Perhaps even evacuate.”

“That would be extreme, Your Grace,” Stevenot said. “We do not want to alarm the populace and cause a panic. Our superior technology and skilled army will easily defeat their witchcraft as we have done in the past.”

Red stained Jack’s vision. “Easily?” he said through clenched teeth. No one in this room aside from him had ever seen combat.

“The last breach was barely even three months long.” Stevenot turned away as if he’d made his point. As if three months in the trenches was merely an extended vacation. These men hadn’t the faintest clue.

War.
The exact cause of the conflict all those years ago was lost to history. Its absence conspicuous since such careful records existed from that point on. Each breach was a devastation. Early on, the Lagrimari use of Earthsong resulted in heavy Elsiran losses. They, in turn, had responded with innovation, better weapons, more artful strategies, but by no means did that guarantee their victory.

“Have you forgotten the Iron War? The Princeling’s Scourge?” Jack looked around the room. “Many of you were alive when they destroyed the citadel, killing thousands of civilians in the borderlands. Ignoring this will not make it go away.”

“The farmers will not leave,” the Minister of Agriculture said, shrugging his shoulders. “They would much rather die on their land.”

“Then may they find serenity in the World After.” Jack leaned back. “There are thousands of borderlanders that can and must be saved. This threat cannot be taken lightly. The Lagrimari have found some new way to weaken the Mantle. There are more and more cracks appearing, and in a matter of days, it
will
fall. We will defend our lands as we always have, but we’ve never faced the True Father on Elsiran soil before.”

The men blinked stupidly in response. Jack kneaded the bridge of his nose. “Is it necessary to invoke Prince’s Right to make you take this seriously?”

Voices around the table exploded.

“You will do no such thing!”

“Presposterous!”

“How dare you!”

Minister Nirall’s voice cut through the din. “The Council serves at the pleasure of the Prince Regent. In times of war, it is fully within his right to dissolve this Council if and when—” Shouts and censure drowned him out.

Lizvette’s father, Meeqal Nirall, was Jack’s favorite Council member, a former professor and the Minister of Education and Innovation, he was most often the voice of compassion and reason.

“Listen,” Nirall said, his voice rising over the others. “We must not let it get to that point. Let us hear him out.”

“Thank you,” Jack said.

The man nodded.

“If we evacuate the borderlanders, where will they go? How will we feed them?” the Minister of Agriculture cut in.

“Yes, these
refugees
”—Pugeros spat the word out like he would a rotten bite of food—“are already straining the Principality’s coffers. With this year’s abominable harvest and the increase on import tariffs out of Yaly, we are already facing difficult financial waters. The latest debacle with the King of Raun means an even more dire situation for our economy. If we reduce the refugee rations, or refuse them entry entirely, we would be in a better position to care for our own people.”

“There is international precedent,” Stevenot said. “We are under no obligation to burden ourselves with their care.”

“This is not a financial question, but a moral one,” said Nirall. “They are fleeing a brutal dictator. We must treat them the same way we’d treat our own women and children. There are enough resources to care for them all.”

“Minister Nirall.” The low timbre of Zavros Calladeen’s voice resonated as he addressed his uncle formally. Calladeen, the youngest on the Council save Jack, owed his position as Minister of Foreign Affairs not to his uncle’s influence but to his own keen intelligence, politicking, and ruthless ambition. “I’ve seen this camp, and much as I would like to feel sorry for these refugees, I am moved by something less like pity and more like suspicion to see them crossing our borders in such increasing numbers.”