The holy man arched an eyebrow. “I did not think the New Maiden would ever leave Harborside.”
“Nor I,” Sabine said, truthfully. “But the decision was made for me. You heard about the church, I presume?” She parsed his expression for a hint of recognition.
While the Second Son’s prophet had yet to reveal himself, Sabine had suspected the Chaplain the moment Brianne issued the third daughters’ warning. René’s actions during his daughter’s incapacitation had been telling. He had ruled as Queen’s Regent, had claimed to be Her voice, had not even tried to wake Brianne. It was clear the Chaplain did not serve the New Maiden. What remained to be seen was whether René followed the Second Son or was loyal only to himself.
“Yes,” the Chaplain answered her probing blithely. “Pity.”
“Your sincerity is noted,” Sabine said sardonically.
“There will always be detractors,” the Chaplain continued. “It’s what you do with their doubt that makes a difference.”
She folded her arms across her chest. “And what would you recommend?”
“Not to get too comfortable.”
A moth with lace-thin wings hit the window with a nearly inaudible thump as it scrambled desperately toward the candlelight. Sabine pursed her lips at the subtle reminder of what—who—she was up against.
The Chaplain was studying her intently. “You’ve seen them, then.”
“The posters? Yes.” Sabine had not learned much of value from her father, but she knew it was important to never show an opponent her hand. “A fleeting threat. True believers will find no reason to stray.”
“You are young,” he said darkly, “and so naive. This is only the beginning.” His eyes glimmered ruthlessly.
“You’re right,” Sabine agreed. “I have only just begun to make my mark. Things will change, and soon.”
“Do not mistake emotions for strategy,” the Chaplain warned. “Some believe they make a leader weak.”
Sabine could not help but laugh. Her emotions were the reason she was in this position at all. “Those who truly believe in Her righteousness know I have nothing to prove.”
“Are you accusing me of something, Maiden?” The Chaplain glowered down at her. “If so, please do speak your mind.”
That was invitation enough for Sabine to air her suspicions. “You spent so many years devoted to the New Maiden. You were certainly invested as the father of the prophecy. Yet since I ascended, I’ve seen none of that self-same piety. Surely your faith is not so fickle?”
René’s expression simmered with fury. “What you deem fickle, I call discerning.”
“What I’m hearing,” Sabine said, raising her eyebrows, “is that you worship the myth, not the Maiden. Your faith lies only in what you can control.”
The Chaplain advanced on her, face reddening. “Do not think for a moment,” he said, “that I could not control you if I wished.” His breath was hot upon her cheek. “I was granted this role because of my discernment and my loyalty. I never favored the New Maiden. My life’s work is in service of Him.”
The spark of triumph in his eyes extinguished as his confession echoed in the eaves. Sabine’s expression hardened. René could not remain in Her service. The truth was too damning. Judging from the venomous expression on the Chaplain’s face, he knew it, too.
“I accept your resignation,” Sabine said, ripping the aubergine sash from René’s shoulder. “Effective immediately, you are dismissed as Velle’s Royal Chaplain.”
6
Velle had been at peace for most of Elodie’s life, so she’d had little reason to frequent the War Room. As she entered the dark, polished space the next day, she admired the wooden walls, brass fixtures, and sprawling maps crafted by Cleo’s father, a renowned cartographer. A wide table built from peich-nat trees sat in the center, the spiral wood grain a dizzying focal point of an already striking room.
Ten chairs were arranged around the table. Three were already occupied. At the head sat General Garvey, a gruff, mustached man of fifty. His red uniform boasted more gold than the royal coffers, and each time he moved, his medals clattered like the wind chimes Rob often used as percussion.
Despite her plea to Tal, Elodie’s brother was there, too, seated as far from his father as the room allowed. His mouth was pressed in the tight pinch only the general seemed able to elicit from his son. The stern line of his lips further cemented at the sight of his older sister. Elodie had neglected to repair their relationship after she had used Sabine’s tears to put Brianne to sleep. Their rapport was still jagged—a shattered mirror no longer reflecting the full picture.
Across the table from Rob sat Tal. In the presence of his former commander, his posture was impeccable, his spine stick-straight, his shoulders so still they could balance an egg. When at last he met Elodie’s accusing eye, his expression was sheepish.
“Your Majesty.” The general rose to his feet and offered her a stiff salute. “You were just a child the last time I set eyes upon you.”
“General.” Elodie gave the man a half curtsy before taking the seat beside him. She did not wish to speak of her childhood, to entertain frivolous memories of birthday parties and lingonberry tarts. “Thank you for answering my call.”
“You called for him?” Rob’s stony expression shattered at this perceived betrayal.
“Anything for Velle, Your Majesty,” the general responded, ignoring his son’s outburst. “My”—he cleared his throat, looking deeply uncomfortable—“condolences about your mother.” His eyes swept across Rob before falling to rest decisively on the tabletop. “She was a fine woman. She would be so proud, seeing you strategize together now.”
Regret clouded the air like incense, suffocating and difficult to dispel. Despite sharing the same physical space, Rob and his father were visibly divided, the general a solitary fortress of emotion whose walls had yet to be breached.
“How would you know?” The quiet righteousness of Rob’s anger swirled about him like a cloak.
Elodie shot Tal an exasperated look. This sort of outburst was the reason she had wanted to keep Rob ignorant to his father’s visit.
Tal rapped the table with his knuckles. “Perhaps we should begin?”
It was then that Cleo and Brianne burst into the room, Edgar’s note in tow. Elodie spread the boy’s maps on the table before her while her sisters claimed their seats.
The general frowned, not at the maps’ ink-darkened borders, but at the presence of the two youngest Warnou children. “Is this really appropriate, Your Majesty?”
Cleo’s and Brianne’s expressions shuttered.
“They are my council just as much as Rob,” Elodie explained. “Their attendance is my preference.”
