Rebel Song Read online

  Jova nodded, and flicked the air with his hand.

  “My sister is as strong as our mother was. She has healed. Her baby is now a fat boy with thick black hair. I don’t tell you these things to ruin your night. Nor do I tell you them to convince you that this criminal has a soft side. I tell you these things because I hope you know that it is not just your band of merry men and the King’s rangers that will go down in this fight. This wickedness will crawl through the air until it seeps in and infests every living thing in Arelanda. Me? I’m already a wicked man. Sants take me down if they so please. But my mother, my sister—they were good. I just want you to remember that as you go singing your rebel song.”

  CHAPTER 14

  Elyra picked up her diamond-blade dagger from her dressing table and delicately fingered the glinting blade. The ornate weapon had been a gift from Princess Karra of The Netherlands, her cousin on her mother’s side, on her twelfth birthday. The Queen had scowled at the weapon, which she saw as an inappropriate gift for a young girl, but Elyra had delighted in it. Karra, tall, plump-faced and wily, always loved getting under her aunt’s queenly skin. Elyra ran a manicured hand over the gemmed handle, glittering with a rainbow of precious stones. Then she slid her index finger along the blade, drawing forth a sliver of blood with such precision, she didn’t even feel the puncture.

  She was not unique—she knew that. She was yet another sad princess confined to her ivory tower—weighed down by heavy jewels, drowning in silks, with little say over her own destiny. She was no different than any other in the long history of pretty little princesses. It was the same song one lifetime after another. And it was a very long line. One of the oldest dynasties in the West, the Ballantynes had sat on the Arelanda throne for almost four centuries now without a single broken line. Although very proud of that lineage, with no sons or brothers and his only sister, Princess Levanna, married to Prince Elton of Belgium, it was no wonder her father spent all his time thinking about an heir.

  Elyra set down the blade and peered into the vanity mirror. She had hardly slept the past few nights and it was starting to show in deep, discolored circles beneath her blood-shot eyes. The nightmare wouldn’t relent. She was either confined to its tortuous horrors or sentenced to hours of idle darkness to wander the tangled garden of her own thoughts, which weren’t that much less horrifying.

  She stared at the calendar with a sinking feeling. It had been six months since her sixteenth birthday thrust her into the world of reality. She should have been bubbling with excitement. It should have been the day that granted her freedom from childhood; freedom from the rule of her parents, everything that went with official, legal adulthood. She snickered to herself. Yeah, freedom. The concept would never truly apply to her. What her birthday truly meant was that she was legally able to fulfill royal duties, join the High Council, and of course, her father’s favorite topic, secure a marriage. The topic had been gently broached with “how she must be so excited to one day find a prince to sit beside her on the throne,” as if she were some storybook damsel with nothing better to do than stare out the window and sing about how her prince would come someday. As if she were not trapped in the middle of a budding civil war, trying to defend her dynasty against a rebellion ready to strike at first provocation. As if there wasn’t a day that went by when she didn’t wish desperately that Rogan was there with her.

  If Queen Calliope had her way, she would parade her daughter about the high social circles, using her as bait for dignitaries’ sons and foreign princes. If King Henri had it his way, he’d sign her over to Markus Fallon and retire the kingdom to him before the ink was dry, replenishing the defense bank on his way out. Ah, Markus Fallon. The two things her father desired most were a strong male heir and money to fund his wars. Markus—son of perhaps the wealthiest family in Europe—would gladly provide him with both.

  A knock rippled through the thick oak chamber door.

  “Yes,” Elyra answered meekly.

  “El, it’s Ada.” the raspy voice seeped through the door. “Are you ready yet?”

  Elyra sighed miserably and gripped the vanity, digging her cherry blossom pink nails into the wood.

  “Yes, I’m ready,” she answered.

  Ada urged the bedroom door open and stepped in.

  “Good Sants, child,” Ada squealed when she entered the dark, dreary bedroom. “It’s like a funeral in here.” She moved to the wide window and flung back the green silk drapes. Fiery white light infiltrated the room. Elyra averted her eyes painfully.

  “Don’t do that,” Elyra muttered, turning her back to the exposed window pane.

  “What is wrong with you, girl?” Ada asked. “You’ve not been yourself in days.” Ada walked toward her and reached her hand under Elyra’s chin, pulling it up.

  “Look at the bags under your eyes. Did you not sleep at all last night?”

  Elyra jerked her face away as Ada scrutinized her. She shook her head.

  “No.”

  “What’s going on with you? You’re not sleeping. I’ve noticed how little you’ve been eating. Your eyes are heavy with despair. Look at how skinny you are! A girl your age should be starting to fill out!”

  What could she say? That she desperately missed Rogan with every fiber of her being? That being separated from him was living torture? No. Elyra shrugged.

  “It’s nothing,” she nearly whispered.

  “I know those signs when I see them,” Ada went on. “It reminds me of…” She stopped herself and inhaled sharply.

  “Reminds you of what?” Elyra asked. Ada was silent, directing her eyes to the floor. “Reminds you of what Ada? Reminds you of her? Of mother?”

  Ada raised her head and met her eyes. She nodded.

  “There are shades of it.” Ada replied.

  The Queen’s history of deep depression was no secret. She’d spent a good part of Elyra’s childhood locked away in her rooms with the drapes shut. Elyra squealed and thrust her arm against a stack of books atop her dresser, sending them flying across the carpeted floor.

  “When did you become such a spoiled brat, then? You’ll never land a prince like that,” she added for spite. Elyra shot her a razor-sharp glare.

  “Oh, piss off, Ada. You sound like my father.”

  Ada held back a smirk.

  “You know,” Ada continued, moving toward the dresser to sort through a box wrapped in sapphire blue silk, housing Elyra’s favorite jewelry. “She wasn’t always so cold. Your mother.” It was enough to pull Elyra’s attention up.

  “Oh? I find that hard to believe.”

  “Sincerely. When she first came to court as a young lady from Luxembourg , not yet out of secondary school, she had that girlish gaiety that you see in classic paintings and read about in a Yants poem. I was just a little girl then; my mum and I accompanied her here. But I remember the way she glowed. I remember watching my mum style her hair and help her dress and feeling so awed by her beauty. If she hadn’t agreed to marry Henri and come to the South…” she paused, then sighed, “I think she’d be a very different woman now.”

  “And there’d be no Elyra,” Elyra mocked.

  “Sants forbid.” Ada rolled her eyes.

  Elyra tried to imagine her mother as a young, eager girl with rosy cheeks and red hair falling in careless waves, madly in love with her father. Or was it ever like that? Had her mother ever really loved anyone? The four-foot portrait that hung in the grand entryway told a different story. Seventeen-year-old Calliope clung to her new husband with arms gloved in silk, but her body tilted ever so slightly away from the stoic king. Her strawberry hair was wrapped high on her head, twisted into an elegant roll and pinned with a chic barrette of yellow diamond butterflies. Her slender body was draped with an elegant tapestry of ivory silk, encrusted with intricate beading from nape to floor. It was truly a vision. She stood regally, but her mossy eyes looked as though she were trying hard to be somewhere else. The King’s mouth was turned up in a subtle smile. The crown of w
hite gold, encrusted with deep blue sapphires, was slightly tilted on his head. His youthful face looked just a bit careless, as though he’d had too much wine before the ceremony. It was something Elyra rarely witnessed in her father—the boy king. She knew, at the end of the story, their marriage just another marriage of convenience, arranged for political expediency.

  Elyra moved to the vanity and let her hair out of the bun it had been in overnight, dropping the long waves over her shoulders. Its rich blend of caramel and fire gave away her mother’s northern lineage—a sharp contrast to her father’s dark features. She picked up her silver-plated brush and began to run it through thoughtlessly.

  “What’s going on in that head of yours? This behavior isn’t like you.”

  “Bad dreams.” Elyra sighed. “They won’t stop. Each night is worse than the last. Ada, I know it sounds like complete madness, but I can’t lose them even when I wake up.” Elyra moved to the window to stare out over the immense grounds of the palace. “Maybe I am just like her. Completely mad.”

  “Elyra, they are just dreams. True, these are difficult times and it’s no surprise that your heart should ache for the people who suffer. I have known you since the day you came barreling into this world and you have always had a gentle soul. But they are just bad dreams, poisoned by all this talk of war and rebellion creeping through the halls.”

  “It’s not just talk, Ada. I think something truly ruinous is brewing.”

  “You are safe inside these walls.”

  Elyra turned from the window.

  “And I should just ignore everything that’s going on outside these walls? Are those people safe?”

  Ada moved closer and rested a gentle hand on her shoulders.

  “Who fills your head with such things?”

  “I’m not blind, Ada. I know what’s happening.”

  Ada sighed and offered a smile as comforting as hot brown sugar oatmeal.

  “I know where your heart is right now. But believe me; if you let it, despair will consume you. Do you want to end up like Calliope? Take your tears, child. Put them on ice. This is no time for weakness. If you want to help this country survive, then go learn how to rule it. Show those fat old men that you’re the future, not them.”

  Elyra closed her eyes and breathed in deeply, collecting her thoughts. She nodded slowly.

  “Duty calls then, eh?” She offered Ada the best smile she could rally. She moved to her closet, flinging open the heavy rosewood doors. She peered down the long corridor lined with shelves of imported silks, vibrant satins, jewel-encrusted scarves and wraps, all hanging perfectly organized and arranged by shades. Everything a pretty little princess could want. She had already laid out her emerald green sheath with the fitted bodice and pearls lining the scoop neck. She despised the monthly council meetings and despised the conservative attire required for attendance even more.

  She slid off her cherry blossom-print silk robe—the one she nabbed from an old woman on a street corner in Tangier that her mother said was brothel garb—and Ada helped her slip the overly starched dress over her head. She sucked in as Ada yanked the back clasps closed.

  “Sampling the fried bread on the square again eh?” Ada teased.

  Elyra spun around and swatted her in the shoulder.

  “You are so mean! And didn’t you just say I was too skinny? Make up your mind, woman.” She tried to sound seriously affronted, but came off half laughing. She did have a weakness for the fried bread sold in front of Viola’s bakery. Her mother scrunched her nose and gagged dramatically every time Elyra brought a batch home from town, aghast that she would put “trashy street food” in her privileged mouth. But each bite of that buttery sensation reminded her of…She shook away the tender memory.

  With her dress fastened, Elyra plucked a pair of heels in soft, chocolate leather from the shelf.

  “Well?” She turned to face Ada. “Will it do?” Ada looked her over with genuine scrutiny and shrugged.

  “The outfit looks fine. But Sants, girl, can’t you do something about your face?”

  Elyra rolled her eyes.

  “I’m getting to it, you old hag.” She pushed Ada out of the way and plopped down at her vanity. With her hands outstretched dramatically, she commanded, “All right, make me worthy of the people.”

  With a stroke of beautifying magic, Ada transformed Elyra’s sagging eyes and sallow skin into a glowing canvas of rose and peach. When she was finished, Elyra gazed into the mirror, hardly recognizing the polished, shining royal face staring back. Yet, all the powder, glimmer and rouge in the kingdom couldn’t hide her sour mood. She was going to have to learn how to be a better actress.

  There was a solid knock at the bedroom door.

  “Yes?” Elyra answered in a soft, disinterested voice.

  “Your Highness, the Council is arriving. His Majesty summons your presence,” Raj, the West Wing house master, called from the other side of the door.

  “Coming shortly,” Ada called in her response. “C’mon now. Go do your job, Princess.”

  When Elyra stepped into the massive Great Hall, the High Council was already seated, most rummaging through documents, some debating each other in sharp whispers. As the quarterly assembly, it meant not just the High Council attended, but the county governors as well, so the room was buzzing. King Henri sat at the far end of the conference table, his spine fully erect in a stiff, poised position. His crown, which he only wore during council meetings and other ceremonial occasions, sat perfectly centered on his graying head. His gray suit was impeccably tailored and fastened around his portly belly with polished platinum buttons. He looked so very gray, she thought. His hands were placed palms down on the table, his eyes slowly scanned the room. As she took a step in, his eyes shot to her. Although his twisted mouth melted into a placid, approving smile when she approached, she could see the agitation in his hard, gray eyes.

  Henri had visibly aged in the last ten years. She had watched him fade from a young, confident leader, eager to wrap an iron fist around his world, to a middle-aged man who looked desperately tired for his years. He didn’t seem to think twice about anything he threw into his mouth anymore or how many cigars he sucked down in an afternoon. She imagined his life had not been the cakewalk the world assumed it was. He’d forfeited his youth to ascend to political power at barely fourteen. He’d sacrificed his chance at truly falling in love and spent his life with a cold, unhappy wife. He’d made a myriad of unpopular choices, fought three wars and squashed one rebellion. Some days, Elyra didn’t know if she admired him or loathed him.

  She moved to her position on his right side, trying with all her will to look interested in the proceedings. She turned to her father and smiled, as if she had waited all morning just to sit by his side.

  “So nice of you to roll from your bed and join us, daughter.” Henri said through tight teeth.

  “I just couldn’t decide what to wear,” she smiled pleasantly, not turning to meet his eyes.

  “It’s about time you take these proceedings seriously, my dear. There is much at stake. Being here to greet the Council upon arrival is part of your role. Or have you forgotten you are the sole heir to this great country?”

  “How could I forget? I have been reminded every day since mother gave up on a son.” Without even turning her face toward him, she could feel his anger. The reminder of his sonless existence never ceased to test his temper.

  The room rustled with low voices and shuffled papers for a few more moments until Minister General Hugh Pantone, head of the High Council and second in political matters to the King, smacked the gavel down on the long table, commanding silence. The room was instantly at his attention.

  “Good morning council and county representatives,” the Minister General began. “I welcome you the first proceedings of the new quarter. I hope you all enjoyed your holiday rest. This year marks an important time for Arelanda. Not just here in the capital, but for all of our counties and outlying districts. As you
know, it’s an election year, which of course means all of you must work that much harder to win your county’s favor. The people have faced hard times these past few years—the drought, the decline of our tourism, the war in the East blocking trade. We all understand where the people are.”

  Elyra couldn’t contain a conspicuous eye roll at the Minister’s rhetoric. Sure you know where they’ve been. You know because you helped put them there.

  “But,” the Minister General continued, “Do not for a moment believe that their misfortunes are a valid excuse to rise up in seditious rebellion. We, the King, will not tolerate such treachery.”

  “And what do you suppose we tell them, Minister Pantone?” Brita Falcon, Minister of Public Works, spoke up. Her long, regal neck was stretched high and her hair—so fair it looked white in the sunlight beaming through the vast hall window—was pulled up into a sharply twisted knot on the top of her head. She sat perfectly still, staring at Hugh Pantone dead on.

  “Ms. Falcon,” Hugh began with a saccharine grin.

  “Minister Falcon,” Brita interrupted. Hugh pursed his lips but nodded in apology.

  “Minister Falcon, I know it is in your girlish nature to be soft toward these people, but you must remember your place and theirs.”

  “And who do you suppose will till the fields and plant the grapes when ‘those people’ are too sick, tired and hungry to work? Or incapable because they’ve lost a leg in your service, fighting for this freedom you’re always touting? Who will brave violent winter seas to bring in fresh shark to stretch out your pants?” Despite her jabs, her porcelain face remained effortlessly poised and emotionless.

  Hugh’s mouth twisted and he stared at her as though he were inspecting her for lice.

  “Those who want to make money badly enough. You are young and new to this council Brita…”

  “Minister Falcon, sir,” she barked.

  “All right, enough,” Henri interjected. “I’m tired of hearing your pointless banter. Minister Falcon, if you are so concerned about the welfare of the working class, then draft me a proposal to…oh, I don’t know…incentivize them. If you ask me, all they need is a little creativity.”