The Soul of Power by Callie Bates

Author:Callie Bates
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Published: 2019-06-03T16:00:00+00:00

The next morning dawns brilliant and clear, though the Butcher had hoped for rain and fog. We move out through the streets of Laon, my open carriage—no longer draped in black for mourning, but shining a brilliant gold—flanked by only five guards, the hilts of their sabers flashing on their shoulders. Rhia rides to my right, bolt-upright despite the sling on her arm, her brightly woven cloak flapping behind her. I feel naked with so few, but the Butcher insisted I must appear an easy target, and the other mountain women are still too ill to accompany us. Teofila and Hugh wave to me from the steps of the palace. Publicly, I’ve left them in charge of the city for the day; privately, I gave them instructions on what to do should I not return. Rambaud would enjoy holding me ransom, but at least if worse comes to worst, we have three of his people to bargain with.

It’s impossible to feel at ease, though at least I don’t have to endure the Butcher’s company. He went with his most trusted men to Montclair in the dead of night; he knows of a little-used exit on the southeastern wall, through which his informants have been smuggling information since yesterday afternoon. Rambaud, it seems, is waiting for us; according to our intelligence, he’s spent several days in Montclair. The mayor responded to my acceptance of her invitation with apparent delight.

So here I am with a scribbled map of Montclair in my cuff, and a burning determination in my stomach. I tug down the sleeves of my long scarlet riding coat, and adjust my little black hat, trimmed with a gold tassel. Even in the carriage, I’ll stand out for a mile—which is supposedly a good thing.

Doors and windows open as we pass, the people of Laon emerging to stare at our small, gleaming party. Children call to me. I wave at them, forcing a smile. At least my people can see that I am alive and well—even while so wickedly bearing an illicit child.

We cross a bridge over the river Sasralie and emerge into the countryside. The day is even more brilliant here, a blush of warm southern air stirring the red buds on the trees. Eren’s fertile green hills roll out from the city walls, while to the west the Hill of the Imperishable slopes up above the gray roofs, a heathered monolith. Farmers emerge from their fields to lean against the stone walls and watch us pass. A few cheer—“Long live the queen!”—though some are silent.

No one riots or throws produce at my head, and it feels entirely surreal. My forced smile makes my cheeks ache.

We skirt a small hamlet, where commoners are emerging from humble thatched houses to watch us pass. Some join the tail end of the party, having heard that the queen will be speaking in Montclair. They shout after me, calling for the blessing of a favor, or at least a glance from me. It’s a strange counterpoint to the riot of two days ago, and my muscles tense even as I wave to them.

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