Chapter 23 Seraphina #2
“Your Grace,” she exhaled, her eyes opening. Steeling her resolve, she turned to face her godfather once more.
Duke Percival met her gaze, his expression solemn.
“Send out usuri to Mysai and order the evacuation to commence.” Wetting her lips, she clarified, “The evacuation of the civilians. Women and children first. Men if there is any room to spare on our ships. We will evacuate them to the Dawnspire.”
Her family’s ancestral stronghold, located in the heart of Elmoria, had lain abandoned for some time, but the lower valley was fertile. It could afford to support refugees.
Her godfather and Sir Easome both stared at her. Though while the latter merely frowned, clearly not in agreement with her decision, the former had no qualms about asking directly, “And what about the soldiers?”
Her father would surely disown her were he still alive, just as her ancestors—the great King Hamon V especially, the last of the de la Croix conquerors—were no doubt writhing in their graves. But she was no conqueror. She was no great warrior. She never had been.
She never would be.
“By royal decree, I order the Elmorian troops stationed in Mysai to hold fast so long as it takes to evacuate the citizens. After that”—she drew in a breath, preparing for her councilors to balk—“they may abandon their posts without fear of being labeled deserters.”
“What?” Sir Easome asked, obviously horrified by the prospect.
For a moment, she almost wavered. But only for a moment. She couldn’t ask those brave men across the Straight to sacrifice themselves for a lost cause. Mysai would fall. That was a fact—a fact she would have to take the time to process later.
There simply weren’t enough ships to evacuate everyone.
And there was absolutely no point in demanding further bloodshed.
Squaring her shoulders, she directed her words to her godfather: “Please send the troops my love and respect. They have served Elmoria well, and for that, I will be eternally grateful. They have the Crown’s permission to now do as their consciences dictate.”
Silence enveloped her study.
Her pulse hammered out a staccato rhythm in response.
Perhaps this was all a mistake. Perhaps the wisest course would be to save what troops she could and leave the people of Mysai to whatever fate Arath had in store for them.
But that was a choice she simply couldn’t live with.
She would bring the people of Mysai home.
She would send word to her steward at her familial home of Dawnspire and tell him to make the ancient keep ready to receive the refugees.
Dawnspire was the most defensible castle in all of Elmoria, and there it had sat for so many decades, serving no purpose while House de la Croix ruled from Goldreach.
At least it would have some purpose now.
Moments ticked by. A full minute passed.
Finally, her godfather cleared his throat. “Is there…anything else, Your Majesty?”
“Yes,” she whispered, on the verge of wavering again.
Drawing in yet another deep breath, she spared a glance for Aldric.
As ever, he watched her as if trying to gouge a hole straight through her skull with his gaze alone.
But this time, he did so without judgment or anger.
Within the depths of his gold-flecked eye, she found merely some measure of peace. And strength.
The strength she needed to do what had to be done.
“With this betrayal, Edmund Hargrave has broken the long-standing treaty between our kingdoms,” she continued, holding her Crow’s gaze as she spoke.
“He has declared war—not just on me, but on his own people. He has betrayed the Church. He has betrayed the very ideals of duty and honor. He has betrayed his own brother. Edmund Hargrave is no king; he is merely a coward.”
Another emotion sparked into being within Aldric’s gaze.
Yet one more she couldn’t name.
With an effort, she pried her attention away and met her godfather’s eyes instead.
“I want usuri sent out to every kingdom, to every corner of the world, declaring the truth—that Edmund Hargrave is a pretender, illegitimate and unworthy of his throne. Let it be known that yesterday, I married the true King of Drakmor, Aldric Hargrave.”
Duke Percival blinked. Sir Easome continued to stare.
But she wasn’t yet finished. She was nowhere near finished.
“And then I want usuri sent to every great lord and lady within Drakmor, reassuring them that though their false king has declared war on my kingdom, I do not hold them at fault. That I stand beside the true King of Drakmor, Aldric Hargrave, as his lawful wife and queen consort. Tell them that we await their pledges of fealty and promises of aid, both in this war and the next, when we shall reclaim Drakmor and restore King Aldric to his rightful throne.”
The words poured from her lips like a swollen river breaking free of its dam. She couldn’t stop them if she had wanted to. But she didn’t want to stop them. Edmund had brought this on himself. He had dared to declare war.
So let it be war.
But clearly her godfather did not share her fervor. Delicately, he interjected, “I must advise you against trying to incite a civil war against a fellow monarch, Your Majesty. Meddling in foreign politics in this way is generally frowned upon—”
Her fury caught further flame at the duke’s words.
“Edmund is a little worm, Your Grace, and no monarch I recognize. That man right there”—she pointed at Aldric—“my husband is the only King of Drakmor I know. And the world shall know it, too. Send out the usuri. Tell the city-states. Tell Lothmeer. Tell Kuni. Tell Arath. Tell all of Drakmor. Litter Falwood’s streets with pamphlets if you must. Encourage the bards to sing about it, if they dare. ”
Glancing at Aldric, she asked, “Your Master Fitzjesmaine is a former bard, is he not?”
But when she caught sight of the way the Crow was now looking at her—his gaze molten, his stare lingering—she paused. Beneath the heat of his undivided attention, she momentarily forgot how to breathe.
He had never looked at her quite like that before.
Aldric’s answer to her question came in the form of a mere rumble of confirmation.
In the awkward silence that followed, Sir Easome jested, “We might run out of usuri with all these letters you’re sending, Your Majesty.”
Blinking her way back to the moment, she countered, “Then we will breed more.”
Her godfather thinned his lips. She could nearly taste his disapproval. But for once, he did not seek to argue with her further. He merely dipped his head and hobbled from the room without waiting to be dismissed, Rogue happily padding alongside him.
After a few beats of pause, Sir Easome bowed. “By your leave, Your Majesty?”
She dismissed him with a nod and a small smile. “Thank you, Sir Easome, for your tireless service and loyalty. I know…Mysai has not gone the way we had hoped it would, but the Lord willing, you and His Highness will soon show Arath what we’re truly made of in Arlund.”
The Lord Constable’s easy smile returned to his visage. “I have no doubts, Your Majesty. No doubts at all.” With another bow, Sir Easome departed, hurrying after her godfather.
But the moment he left the room, the air seemed to grow close again. The space between her and her Crow crackled, charged with all the things that remained unsaid.
She hadn’t the faintest idea what he thought about all that she had just decreed in his name. Was he displeased? Irritated that she had not spoken with him about it all first? She watched him out of the corner of her eye, studying him where he still stood next to her desk, watching her in turn.
His gaze smoldered in its fixation against the side of her face, but still he said nothing. His silence held. The moment stretched on.
She couldn’t stand it any longer. A peal of nervous laughter exploded from her throat. “What in the world are you thinking about?”
He blinked and looked away, as if only just now realizing he had been staring this whole time. Swallowing visibly, he pushed himself away from her desk and closed the distance between them in just a few steps.
Her breath caught in her throat once again as he reached forward, taking her hand within the clasp of his. He moved slowly, cautiously, like a man trying to stalk a deer through the woods without startling it. Bringing her hand to his lips, he pressed a kiss there.
No cold nor strange voice accompanied the touch.
Heat bloomed in her cheeks. She stared down at him, trying to make sense of what was happening. His hold on her hand was gentle. His lips were warm. But as with his previous stare, his touch lingered far past the point of polite.
Glancing up at her, he finally admitted on a rasp, low and husky, “Nothing I’d care to confess aloud.”