Author's Preface
For Prince Edgar Rosencrantz, it is beyond question that the most precious spoil of war, recovered from anywhere in the world, across all of history, and by any ship of the Queen’s navy, is Amira Imogen Rossach.
He knows that this is the imperialism talking. He knows, logically, that it is perhaps not politically correct to call a woman a spoil of war. But he has only ever heard one side of the story—that the Saelics were on good terms with Amira’s village before the local embassy stumbled upon an occult ritual led by the village’s fearsome and beautiful witch-queen, witnessed the villagers burning a human child alive, and were forced to defend themselves by razing the village to the ground. The lone survivor was one five-year-old girl, who they took back to Saol Eile as a slave.
Edgar has always taken this story with a grain of salt. He has many reasons to distrust Queen Philomena’s activities abroad, but the vacant, haunted stare in his best friend’s eyes is the most compelling of these reasons. Before he met Imogen, Edgar had only seen such a stare in the eyes of grizzled war veterans, those on the brink of madness from the terrible things they had seen and done. And he had never met someone so furiously adamant at not telling her own side of the story, as if someone had threatened a fate worse than death if she loosened her lips. Imogen’s silence spoke louder than words.
Still, he muses, perhaps the imperialist propaganda got one thing right. The witch-queen of the Alamar Isles, their “Saintess,” is the most exquisite and terrifying creature Edgar has ever seen. She descends from the carriage as if borne aloft on a cloud, the translucent silk of her veil and dress floating mistlike about her dark, slender form. Reflecting the gleam of a thousand golden beads, her amber-colored eyes flash with fire. Imogen—Amira—the Saintess—is radiant . And for the first time, in all his years as a priest, Edgar understands that elusive piece of holy scripture: what the angels of heaven meant when they said Be Not Afraid.
He drops to his knees. Wholly unprecedented for a prince in his own palace, but part of him fears that if he does not kneel now, his quivering legs will give out and make that decision for him.
“Your Eminence,” he breathes. Shaking, he extends his hand.
The Saintess steps forward. Edgar half expects her to smite him, to strike him down with occult fire, to reduce him to the smear of ash he deserves to be just for setting eyes on her beauty. But she doesn’t. Instead, she rests her gloved hand in his own and smiles.
“Hi, Edgar,” she whispers.
And it is her. It is her voice, her smile, her. He wants nothing more than to sweep her off her feet and tear off the veil and kiss her like the world is ending, audience and custom be damned. After all these years, his princess is here. He can feel the slight tremble of her hand. She’s just as nervous as she is. Was it just yesterday that they stood before that humble altar, both of them quivering in their boots at the thrill of having eloped? It will be different now, he swears. He will do it right this time. He will not let them take this priceless treasure ever again.
He lifts her hand to his lips and kisses her knuckles. Only Ezra, clearing his throat disgustingly over his shoulder, reminds Edgar to pull away.
I don’t know what I was expecting to feel while watching my parents’ reunion. Detached, slightly numb satisfaction was not it. But as they take to socializing around the party, arms linked together, I find myself sitting forlornly under a gazebo with a glass of wine in my hand. Not the watered-down apple juice that Ezra recommended to keep my head clear—I am quickly losing interest in doing Ezra’s job for him, especially since I’m not getting paid to do it. Anyway, it’s an open bar event. I intend on appreciating it.
I am deep in my second glass when a figure appears at the entrance, awkwardly pushing aside the floral streamers. “Is this…um…gazebo taken?” asks Thorunn.
With a wry smile, I slide over on the bench and let him sit beside me. We have not exactly been subtle about our relationship, particularly with me flaunting my diamond ring at every possible opportunity, but this feels different. I am starting to wish I wasn’t so tipsy. Perhaps then we could stroll about the garden like all the other noble couples are doing, snacking on fancy appetizers and chuckling elegantly behind silk gloves.
Meanwhile, Mom is doing just that with Edgar. They are milling about the party, arm-in-arm, chatting with a cluster of nobles for a few minutes at a time before moving on to the next cluster. I am pleased to see that Mom has refrained from drinking. That was something I warned both Ezra and Moretti about—even though holding a glass of something alcoholic is expected at semiformal events like this, my mother has zero self control when drinking, and one drink will become six before anyone can stop her. It’s actually kind of impressive how much booze her tiny, four-foot-eleven frame can hold. So instead of a glass, she occupies her free hand with a delicate lace fan.
I have been a little “out of the loop” when it comes to her formal etiquette lessons, but Pansy tells me that she has taken to it like a natural. From the looks of it, Mom is actually doing a better job talking to the busybodies than Edgar. Everyone she speaks to walks away with a genuine smile on their face. Occasionally, a reporter will ambush them from around a topiary bush, but although I cannot make out what she says, Mom just gives a short, polite response which always makes the reporter bow in respect and scurry away. Each time, Edgar stares at her in awe. Moretti and Pansy have prepared her well.
“I wonder where she’s hiding her gun,” I murmur.
Thorunn raises a curious eyebrow, then brightens up. “Ah! Yes, a special holster on her leg. She can move her skirts aside to reach it.”
“Have you seen her use it?” I ask.
“Afraid not.”
“She’s a madwoman, that one. I went out to the practice range once, just to see her progress. Moretti says she’s doing fine for a beginner, but she gets this… crazy look in her eye. Never seen it before, scares the kaboodle out of me.”
“Eloise, I mean this in the nicest way possible,” says Thorunn slowly, “but you’re very drunk.”
There is a very slight possibility that he is right. I wonder if I built up a stronger alcohol intolerance in my last life. At the height of my success, I would never be this unhinged after only two glasses of wine. When did I start drinking heavily in my first life? About the same time I gained weight, filled out my hips, and actually grew some real breasts? That wasn’t until my twenties. Damn. Cursed to be a lightweight for two more years, at least.
Thorunn exchanges my wine for a tall glass of water and a plate of fancy olives and cheese. Proper etiquette would demand that I eat slowly to save room for the dinner. I don’t really care. I really like olives, and I’m starving. I have not eaten since this morning.
“Is everything okay?” asks Thorunn. “You look…”
“Awful?” I finish. “It’s the dress. No petticoat. I feel like I’m wearing a sack.”
“N-no! Not at all.” His cheeks redden, and his eyes dart. “Your dress is…well…you’re beautiful. I don’t see any resemblance to a sack. What I meant to say is that you look unhappy, a-and if you would do me the kindness, my lady, it would be my honor to make you smile.”
Here he is, all dressed up in his crown and silver chains, looking like a literal demigod. He could probably sweep any of these sexually-repressed noblewomen off their feet without so much as a wink. As the escort of Saintess Amira, Thorunn is the second-highest guest of honor present at this party. And yet, he is clasping my hand in both of his, proclaiming that it would be his honor to cheer me up. What have I done to deserve this man?
Now that the weather is nice, we could easily break away from the main party and join the few introverted nobles who are taking canoes out onto the lake. But we still technically have a job to do. One of the Vallikyr, Thorunn’s cousin Svara, is to follow directly behind Amira at all times. I have not ruled out the possibility that the reason everyone at the party is being so polite to my mother is Svara’s enormous, scowling, six-foot-two silhouette behind her. The other two Northerners, Thorunn and the other Vallikyr Hilde, are responsible for scanning the rest of the party. They need not stay by Amira’s side, allowing my fiancé to walk with me, but we cannot stray too far.
Once I finish off a glass of water and get some food in my stomach, the effects of the alcohol taper off and allow me to act passably sober. With my hand in the crook of Thorunn’s arm, we begin our rounds. Thorunn is searching for threats. I am searching for information. The Guildensterns’ steward has disappeared, and there is still no sign of Olivia’s fashionably late family. But as Thorunn and I walk, I catch bits and pieces of conversation:
“—I heard she was just a slave. Secret royalty? It’s like a fairytale—”
“—an alliance with the Northerners?—”
“—oh, Auntie, ‘saintess’ isn’t a noble title. It’s just what they call their village witches—”
“—must have a considerable fortune to hire the likes of them as her personal bodyguards—”
“—not born out of wedlock at all, the petition says it was wrongly annulled—”
“—some obscure estate law—”
“—the Alamar Isles…that’s where Grandpa’s retirement home is, right? And where they farm rubber plants—”
“—but they mustn’t dishonor Lady Olivia—”
“—what I’d give to be a fly on the wall at dinner tonight—”
“—did you see Edgar’s face? When he set eyes on her? If only my husband looked at me like that—
“—to hell with Olivia, the Guildensterns are just gold diggers anyway—”
“—I just spoke to her, she speaks Saelic quite fluently. But what a strange accent, like the awful drawl of my maidservants—”
There’s worse, of course. The conversations that I overhear from men, speaking to other men when they think no woman is listening in, are particularly vile. But that is only to be expected. I clench my teeth and try to sift through the more helpful bits I have learned: reactions are a mixed bag, but not entirely hostile, and some surprisingly positive. The public opinion of the Guildensterns, particularly Lady Olivia’s relentless pursuit, is quite poor, only surviving off of tradition, chivalry, and custom. Meanwhile, Saintess Amira is an entirely new player in the gentry’s theater—her unusual past, stunning beauty, and unexpected alliance with the Northern tribes combining into an irresistible, mysterious allure that no one can deny.
Across the garden, a small crowd is gathering again. A head of golden-blond curls catches my eye. Princess Emerlane has arrived for her brief appearance. She easily rivals my mother as the best-dressed in the party, though this is no surprise. Emerlane is truly a woman out of legend. She is tall and lean, her athletic build boasting decades of combat prowess. Today, she shimmers in a sea-blue gown with a loose, draped cut and gathered folds of fabric, suggesting the robes of early antiquity. But she is not one to outshine the guest of honor. As soon as she arrives, Emerlane wastes no time in greeting the happy couple. I watch as Mom bends into a deep curtsy before the Crown Princess, and then—to my surprise—the Crown Princess curtsies back.
That is all I need to see. The votes are in. Edgar, Ezra, Emerlane. Now all that is left is one of two tiebreakers…
“Baroness…Odric, is it?”
I turn. Speak of the devil. Crown Prince Edwinn IV—or, as my father calls him, “Winny”—has also made his appearance, but instead of greeting his brother and the guest of honor, beelined it straight towards me.
He smiles and gives a short bow. “Pleasure to see you here.” But there is something in the way he says it—something that sends chills down my spine—that really sounds more like You shouldn’t be here.
EXHIBIT 1.
In support of his petition to His Majesty’s Court of Pleas, Petitioner EDGAR ROSENCRANTZ comes now and enters into evidence the following:
Summary of all automatic weekly, monthly and annual transfers by Petitioner to Beneficiaries Amira Al’Kilic and Elizabeth Rosencrantz, authorized for automatic payment by the Royal Bank of Saol Eile, beginning MAY 1, 471 A.R. through SEPTEMBER 2, 489 A.R.
As stated in the attached Confidential Affidavit of Identity, all payments made to the name “Imogen Rossach” were intended to reach the Beneficiary Amira Al’Kilic, and all payments made to the name “Elizabeth Rossach” were intended to reach the Beneficiary Elizabeth Rosencrantz.
For itemized bank receipts of all known automatic payments, see attached Exhibit 1A (925 pages).
Intended Beneficiary: Imogen Rossach
Household— Monthly —Ω5.75—220 payments— Subtotal Ω1,265.00.
Grocery— Monthly —Ω13.63—220 payments— Subtotal Ω2,998.60.
Meat— Monthly —Ω5.80—220 payments— Subtotal Ω1,276.00.
Milk— Monthly —Ω1.36—220 payments— Subtotal Ω299.20.
Dry Goods— Monthly —Ω1.44—220 payments— Subtotal Ω316.80.
Boots and Shoes— Monthly —Ω1.45—220 payments— Subtotal Ω319.00.
Clothing— Monthly —Ω4.48—220 payments— Subtotal Ω985.60.
Lighting— Monthly —Ω0.50—220 payments— Subtotal Ω110.00.
Fuel— Monthly —Ω1.48—220 payments— Subtotal Ω325.60.
Miscellaneous Monthly Expenses— Monthly —Ω5.75—220 payments— Subtotal Ω12.65.
Driver, Salary— Weekly —Ω7.50—952 payments— Subtotal Ω7,140.00.
Housekeeper, Salary— Weekly —Ω4.50—952 payments— Subtotal Ω4,284.00.
Medical Expenses— Annually —Ω100.00—18 payments— Subtotal Ω1,800.00.
Anniversary Present— Annually —Ω500.00—18 payments— Subtotal Ω9,000.00.
Intended Beneficiary: Elizabeth Rossach
Nursemaid, Salary— Weekly, for the duration of 5 years —Ω4.50—260 payments— Subtotal Ω1,170.00.
Tutor, Salary— Weekly, for the duration of 5 years —Ω10.00—260 payments— Subtotal Ω2,600.00.
Education, Tuition & Expenses— Annually, for the duration of 11 years —Ω400—11 payments— Subtotal Ω4,400.00.
Birthday Present— Annually —Ω100—18 payments— Subtotal Ω1,800.00.
TOTAL SUM OF AUTOMATIC PAYMENTS: Ω41,354.80.
Duly sworn and submitted to the Court of Royal Pleas, certified in authenticity and veracity by Royal Notary and Clerk of Records, MS. ELOISE ODRIC, in service of His Highness, PRINCE EDGAR ROSENCRANTZ.