Chapter Nineteen #4
“I mean it, Netta. I saw how powerful you are. I have been working to keep this kingdom from falling into chaos, and I saw that you were the key to it all.”
“And my mother? And the book?”
“We will find them tomorrow! I was not misleading you about that. This is … separate.”
“No.” I shook my head. “You’ve lied to me from the very beginning. I want to go back to my rooms. Take me back. Now. Unlock that door.”
We glared at each other for a long, charged moment before Patrick remembered himself and slipped his mask back into place.
Baldbeak nibbled at my ear in concern.
For why so angry?
I did not answer him. I couldn’t. My flushed cheeks were the only reminders of the wine in my veins; the rest of me was stone-cold sober and bristling with irritation.
“Milady wanted to give me to Ban Morin. You want to give me to the king. You are the same.”
“We are not.”
“You are fooling yourself if you think so. I am not a puppet to be danced about by whoever decides to hold the strings. I am not yours to give away, and I am not a pawn in your game.”
Patrick said nothing. His usual glibness, his subtle barbs and playful quips, had vanished.
He stepped swiftly to the door and unlocked it, then took my arm: his grip steady, but no longer gentle.
I allowed him to guide me back out into the bright lights and noise of the ballroom, and parted from him as soon as I reasonably could without causing a scene.
“Netta …” I heard him say from behind me, but I ignored him.
I accosted one of the tray-bearing servants instead and downed a full glass of sparkling wine, then another.
It burned my throat on the way down. The vast room was too bright; too loud.
There was too much laughter and too much music for a kingdom teetering on the brink of war.
So. No more Patrick. And no more Dwale, either, clearly. I was alone again, aside from Baldbeak, and if I were to find my mother and her book, I would have to do it alone.
I moved through the glittering throng, keeping my expression neutral, my hands steady, even as my heart pounded, until I found my target.
The Pontiff.
His great golden chain of office made him unmistakable.
He stood near the great marble fireplace.
The fire was not lit, but the servants had filled the hearth with tall beeswax candles on gilt pedestals, so that light still blazed from it, setting the Pontiff’s yellow robes aglow and his perfectly smooth bald head gleaming.
He stood in the midst of a circle of nobles, each vying for his attention.
Their voices were raised, but the Pontiff did not speak.
He did not need to. His presence spread around him like the ripples from a pebble dropped into water; ponderous and grave.
I forced myself to step forward, to tilt my chin just enough to be noticed.
“Your Eminence,” I said, with as much assurance as I could muster.
He turned, surprised.
“Young lady,” he said. “I do not believe I’ve had the pleasure. You are Foley’s … friend, are you not?”
No.
“Yes, Your Holiness,” I said, dropping as deep a curtsey as I could manage. He inclined his head very slightly in acknowledgement. “Forgive me for interrupting.”
He looked around at the obsequious young men surrounding him and waved his hand, dismissing them. “No need to apologize, my dear. The interruption is quite welcome.” He retreated to a nearby sofa and patted the seat beside him. “Please, sit.”
“Thank you, Your Holiness.” I smoothed my skirts over my lap and put a hand up to my Hair, hoping it would stay in place. “I was hoping to speak to you.”
“So I see. I must confess I was looking for a reason to sit down and have some peace and quiet, and so I suppose I owe you a debt of gratitude.” He gave a smile of disarming sweetness. He could have been someone’s kindly grandfather but for the hint of steel behind his eyes.
I knew Patrick would have advised me to be subtle, to dance around the subject and gather information discreetly—but I didn’t want anything to do with Patrick or his methods right then.
I tried to smile just as sweetly as the Pontiff as I said, “I am Persinette Edevane, daughter of Margotte Edevane, and I want you to tell me where my mother is.”
The high Pontiff of all the Temple turned the full blaze of his attention on me, all grandfatherliness gone.
“I beg your pardon?” he said in a tone of mild interest, but his eyes skewered me to my seat.
“I know that my mother’s spellbook is in your possession,” I said. “And I think you know where she is. I want to negotiate her release.”
He glanced around the room sharply, taking in the curious eyes that watched us. No one could overhear, but there was no doubt we were noticed.
“How bold,” he murmured. “What makes you think I have any idea where your mother is, little mage?”
“I have seen her letters,” I said. “I know you have her spellbook—the one she has been working on since I was a child. I don’t care about the book. But I do care about my mother.”
“This is hardly the time or place,” he said.
“Then name the time and place.”
The Pontiff’s gaze did not waver. “You have been spending too much time with Ban Foley,” he said. “Speaking of whom.”
“Netta,” came a familiar, silken voice, close to my ear.
I turned my head to find Patrick standing beside me, his expression carefully neutral, though his eyes were anything but. They swept over me, taking in my flushed cheeks, the empty goblet dangling precariously from my fingers.
“I see I must bid you goodnight, my lady,” said the Pontiff.
“I am about to depart. I’m afraid that, at my advanced age, a comfortable chair and a good book hold more charm than glittering soirées like these.
Good evening, Foley.” He nodded a farewell and started for the door, followed by his personal guard. Patrick gripped me by the arm.
“Allow me to escort you to your rooms, my lady. You must be tired.”
My pride bristled at his tone: at the implication that I was anything less than in control. I pulled my arm away, wobbling only slightly. “I’m perfectly fine, my lord. You needn’t trouble yourself.”
Patrick’s lips curved into an unpleasant, knowing smile that only irritated me further. “I insist,” he said smoothly, his grip light but unescapable as he guided me inexorably out of the ballroom. “Let’s get you to bed before the high lords start wagering as to who will carry you there.”
I had little choice. With an exasperated huff, I allowed him to lead me out. Baldbeak flapped behind us, pausing to snap up one last canapé before alighting on my shoulder again.
“Were you displeased with how I conducted myself with the Pontiff, my lord?” I said under my breath.
“Wait until we are out of the room at least,” he hissed.
“I thought you would be proud. You are such an expert in deception.”
We were out of sight of the ballroom now. I shook him off and took the stairs two at a time to get ahead of him. He followed me all the way to my room.
“Leave me alone.”
“Netta …”
I paused, my hand resting on the doorframe to steady myself as I turned to him.
His voice dropped, quiet and controlled.
“You think I would force you to marry against your will?” he said. “You misjudge me. I would never want you to be unhappy.”
“No, just obedient.”
“I would protect you …”
“I know very well that you would protect your investment,” I said, letting a little venom creep in on the last word. “How stupid you must have thought me, all this time.”
“You are not stupid.” He reached his hand out to me, but I ignored it. “I have never thought that. Do you think this is easy for me? Do you think I don’t—”
He cut himself off.
I searched his face, heart pounding. “Don’t what?”
“Nothing. You cannot understand.”
“Oh, I understand,” I shot back. “You want to give me to the king because it benefits you. Because it elevates you. Because you are the ambitious little weasel Milady told me you were.”
The change in him was immediate.
“You know nothing,” he hissed, his voice low and venomous. Baldbeak snapped at him, but he ignored it.
“Do you think I want you to marry the king?” he said.
“When I—” He cut himself off again. “I want Virelith to survive, and if the Temple has free rein, or we descend into civil war, that won’t happen.
” He leaned in, dropping his voice to a murmur.
“But you were right about one thing, Netta. You are not a pawn. You are the whole game.”
My heart stuttered in my chest; my breath came fast and shallow.
I felt off-balance. The moment stretched too long, and something in Patrick’s eyes changed—softening and darkening at once.
I tilted my head up ever so slightly. His gaze dropped to my mouth.
I swallowed. It was bizarre, inexplicable, but I was certain—certain—that he was going to kiss me.
But then he leaned back.
“You don’t have to like me, Netta,” he said flatly. “I am selfish, I know. I am ambitious. But I’m also right.” He turned on his heel and walked away.