He pressed his forehead to hers, a certain mischief in his tone as he finally answered her question. “Yes, except that you and I are no good at running away from a fight.”
CHAPTER 36
THEYmet in the council room in the North Tower of the Itspi with the sun still rising. The chairs were pulled tightly against the oval table, every one of them taken, though the makeup of the advisors was different than before.
No Osana. No Ula nor Urtzi. No Tala, who elected to stay with the resistance members who camped upon the Itspi’s grounds—though they had been offered quarter within the castle itself—but declined the meeting because he believed he would be more of an impediment than an asset.
Amarande had to agree with him.
As the net tightened, so did the inner circle, it seemed. Even if it was not by choice.
And so, Amarande and Luca sat side by side, flanked by Councilor Joseba, Ferdinand, newly appointed General Xixi—who, out of the corner of Amarande’s eye, almost seemed to be Koldo’s ghost with her long braid, proud shoulders, and calm stoicism. If she noticed the striking similarity, Ferdinand likely did, too. And they were both stubborn enough to pretend they didn’t.
“Before we begin our earnest discussion of Ardenian succession in the eyes of the continent, I must make note that we have received an additional request from Pyrenee as of this morning.” Joseba removed a slip of parchment from his ivory robes. He passed it to Amarande, the aubergine seal crumbling across the shiny surface of the table. “They are demanding forfeiture and return of anything removed from the Pyrenee ships while in our harbor. Namely, the contents of Taillefer’s workshop.”
The vials.
Of course, Renard would account for those wretched vials. Of course, he would.
Amarande read the demand, her attention immediately snagging upon the bottom footnote, which delineated that the message had also been sent to the other kingdoms.
“They cannot have their poisons.” Amarande let the paper flutter to the tabletop. That constant frustration that had ticked under her skin since the debacle at the conclave spiked. She waved a dismissive hand. “Tell them the vials have been discarded. Or that they were damaged.”
Joseba’s chin wobbled. “My queen, we’re not in a position to lie.”
“It’s not a lie if we discard them now and then send a message.”
Joseba was not Satordi and wouldn’t argue that she was being childish or foolish or anything else. He was only two years older than his queen, and his personality was friendly besides. But the councilor’s erudite nature meant that he had a certain entitlement when it came to being right and would argue from that position no matter what obstacles were tossed straight at his cherubic head.
“Semantics aside, Your Highness, the kingdoms are already suspicious of anything we do or say. Any move but compliance will be scrutinized and used against us.”
The councilor’s argument was sound, reasonable, and appropriate. The problem was the person on the other end of this request was anything but. Tense and unwavering, Amarande shook her head definitively.
“I would rather be scrutinized than arm that madman with Taillefer’s poisons.”
Luca placed a gentle hand on Amarande’s wrist. “Perhaps we can deliver them while attending the conclave? Or at least bring them and our concerns before the group as a whole. Surely Basilica and Myrcell, given the loss of their kings to the very same poison, will not approve?”
Ferdinand shook his head. “Considering their overall disdain for any of our ideas at the last conclave, I highly doubt they’ll side with us under Renard’s own roof.”
“If I may,” Joseba interjected, cheeks flushed against the ivory fabric of his robes and the dark fall of his hair, “the order also specifically says that we are to deliver themaheadof the conclave. If we are tardy, there will be retribution whether we have them or not.”
Amarande’s gaze rolled to the ceiling, her palms pressing so firmly against the table she wished it would crack under the pressure. As satisfying as a huge gaping fault in the wood would be, the table held, and she balled up one of her fists and pounded it into the highly polished top.
“I amso tiredof retribution from men willing to put us all in danger simply to keep hold of their power.”
With a deep breath Amarande swept her attention from the ceiling to her advisors—friends, love, family—her royal facade webbed with shallow, spidering fractures as her voice barely held it together, a lump forming in her throat. She wouldn’t cry now, but only because of so many years of practice. Her frustration was at a breaking point and so was she.
Perhaps she didn’t yearn for a terrible splintering of the table but of her noble self.
“Why am I punished for being reasonable? I am punished for my sex. I am punished for whom I love. I am punished for my power, my weaknesses, my mere existence. I am so exhausted by it.”
By the end Amarande was breathing hard, simply out of the effort to keep from all-out shouting. Frustration and anger roiled through her, from the tip of the complicated braided crown her maids had insisted upon, through the sword-honed muscles of her shoulders, her abdomen, straight to the boot knife crowding her ankle with its grounding presence.
It was easy to see why Inés and Geneva acted out so. Renard’s gripe about the emotional instability of women still stung all these days later. He wasn’t wrong about their mothers, those twowereunstable with their hunger for power. Yet, Amarande understood intimately how they were driven to their instability.
Everything about this world pushed a woman to madness, especially one with power to hold and none of it to use.
Luca gripped her wrist tightly now but had nothing to say that might help; Ferdinand stared at the table so intently it might actually splinter; and General Xixi examined her gloved hands, knowing when to stay out of a battle that was not hers.
