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  Brita nodded compliantly.

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  “And Minister Pantone,” He turned to face the General. “I trust you will continue your diligent efforts to protect the best interests of this realm. I have faith that your long tenure as Minister General has not faded the principles you once swore to uphold.”

  Pantone offered a counterfeit smile and nodded.

  “Of course, Your Grace. The welfare of the people is my top priority.”

  Pantone sat smugly at the end of the long, oval table, his face looking more like a walnut every day. Elyra had known him as long as she could remember. In fact, she was sure he’d been at court longer than she’d been alive. At the tail end of his third term as Minster General, he’d been a powerful force in the political realm for decades, whispering in the king’s ear, gracefully working the political marionette strings with one hand and sipping brandy with the other. It was no secret that she trusted him about as much as she would a desperate man awaiting execution.

  Elyra turned her attention to Brita Falcon. Despite the constant harassment of her character, the stoic minister remained ever poised. When she had first been elected to the council earlier that term, she had been a laughing stock. The palace halls were filled with whispers and rumors about the twenty-one-year-old’s lack of both breeding and life experience. Who had her father paid to get her the seat? Or who had she climbed into bed with? As one of the youngest—and the only woman—to ever be elected to the council, Elyra admired her ferocity and poise in the face of so much adversity. Her election told Elyra that the world was shifting and all hope was not lost. Maybe modernity wasn’t such a foreign concept after all.

  “What is next on the docket?” Henri peered down at the agenda typed out on stiff parchment. “A grant to refurbish historic structures.” He looked up at Willem Harrow, the Minister of Culture, with a cocked eyebrow. “Truly?”

  Willem cleared his throat.

  “Your Grace, many of our fine pieces of history are crumbling to the ground. Our city is old and great, but it cannot stay so by the grace of God alone. The Temple is…”

  “Honestly, Willem,” Pantone interrupted. “Is it our job to provide a more comfortable place for a bunch of fools to get on their knees and worship some statue?”

  Elyra fumed inwardly. Pantone’s open distain for the Faith was well known, but did he really have to step on the beliefs of half the room?

  “Hugh,” Henri snapped at Pantone. “You will remember that the Ballantyne family stands as the official Head of the Almighty Faith. You are free to hate it on your own time but you will not speak out like that again.” Her father wasn’t the most pious man, but her mother came from a conservative family who didn’t believe freedom of belief should be so widely tolerated. Queen Calliope had difficulty adjusting to the spread of atheism in Arelanda, which had welcomed freedom of faith for more than 400 years.

  “My apologies, Your Grace,” Pantone said humbly. “But I do believe we have greater needs at this time.”

  Henri snarled at him but then nodded.

  “I agree. Mr. Harrow, I appreciate the great need to protect our city’s culture and history, but we cannot allocate such funds at this time. I will revisit your request next quarter. In the meantime, this is why we have budgets. Surely you haven’t already run through your annual budget at hardly mid-year?”

  Willem looked defeated but shook his head.

  “No, Your Grace. We will make do with what we have.”

  “Good,” Henri turned back to his agenda. “Now, let’s see. A new wine tax? Didn’t we raise wine taxes last quarter? Harold?” He turned to the Minister of Agriculture.

  The small balding Harold Sayer cleared his throat.

  “We did two quarters prior, Your Grace,” Harold answered meekly. “We raised the export tax by three points. The current proposition would raise the local distribution taxes by two points, Sir.”

  “I see. Have you the necessary signatures for the vote?”

  “The proposition does not actually come from the Ministry of Agriculture, Your Grace.” Harold glanced nervously around the room.

  “And? Where does this document I hold in my hand come from then?” His patience was already souring, the veins in his hands pulsing. Henri had about as much tolerance for High Council meetings as Elyra did.

  “I began this initiative, Your Grace,” Hugh spoke up. “After Minister Fridd did the analysis on the production and distribution report, we concluded that the tax being charged locally is disproportionate to the profit yield.”

  Henri chewed on his cuticle, seemingly un-amused by the defense.

  “All right,” Henri said with a sigh. “You are the Minister General here, not I. I trust you know what you’re doing.”

  “Thank you, Your Grace.” Minister Pantone nodded satisfactorily.

  Elyra felt a pang in her gut as her loathing for Minister Pantone grew.

  The council began to stir with tension.

  “What’s next?” Henri said.

  Pantone shuffled through his file.

  “Veteran’s Affairs funding,” Pantone said dryly, carelessly handing the file to the King. Henri rolled his eyes.

  “Is there anyone here that isn’t requesting money?” Henri scanned the paperwork and sighed. “You’ve been busy, Minster Falcon.” He eyed her suspiciously.

  Brita held her composure but anyone sitting next to her would have seen the slight worry in her otherwise cold eyes.

  “It’s a co-sponsored request, Your Grace,” She said. “In conjunction with the Minister Brigg and the Defense Department. It’s one of the top requests for funding we receive from the Governors, as I’m sure those present today can attest. As the injured and discharged trickle in from the East, their options are extremely diminished. Many are now disabled, or their lands have been foreclosed on since their deployment—”

  Henri held up a hand to stop her.

  “Being a soldier is their job, Minister. Am I supposed to clothe and feed everyone in the country who’s injured on the job?” Henri asked.

  Brita squirmed with agitation.

  “With all due respect, Your Grace—”

  “Why is it that every time I hear those words, I’m about to hear something I do not respect?”

  “Then at the risk of disrespecting you, Your Grace, these aren’t carpenters and fishermen,” Brita went on. “Their job keeps this country safe and its walls intact. I think a little compassion is warranted. It doesn’t reflect well on this council if those who lose limbs in the name of the King are tossed out like dried-out heifers.” She glared at Hugh, whose eyes rolled in disgust.

  “All right, all right,” Henri continued. “As usual, you’ve made your bleeding heart point. Your request for funding will go to the vote at the end of the meeting.” Brita and Robart Brigg nodded appreciatively.

  “Anything else?” Henri asked.

  When Minister Pantone finally slammed his gavel in conclusion of the meeting, Elyra was practically asleep at the table. She perked up and tried to smile politely to each Minister and county representative as they exited the Council Hall. Markus Fallon, who was working under Minister Fridd as the Intern Minister of Economics, lingered by his seat as if contemplating something. She sensed his deliberation and scurried to gather her things before he could come up with something mindless to say to her. She was not quick enough. He caught her just outside the hall door with a gentle touch on her forearm that made her shudder.

  “Elyra.” She fought back a scowl. It didn’t matter if she’d known him since she was six—Markus grated on her nerves. “I was hoping to speak with you.”

  “Intern Minister,” she replied with a hint of polite mocking. “How can I be of service?” He smiled back, ignoring the jab.

  “The Council meetings have improved with your presence,” he offered so formally that Elyra had to fight the urge to giggle and swoon melodramatically.

  “Thank you. I hope to improve on many things
here now that I am able.” She began to walk down the hallway. He followed eagerly.

  “It’s impressive that you would take such a role in your position.” Elyra stopped mid-step and turned around. His pale green eyes had a disingenuous twinkle she didn’t trust.

  “Oh? And what position is that?” She fought back her irritation.

  “Well, many princesses prefer to spend their time on less taxing matters. Improving communities, charity events, spreading world peace.”

  Elyra’s lip turned up in a snarl at his implication of her very weak sex. Oh yes, world peace. That small task, she thought.

  “Is that so? Which princesses have you spoken with lately?” She raised her eyebrows and smiled tightly. Markus attempted humility.

  “I suppose you set the bar.”

  “Oh well, you know me. Always reaching for the stars. What is it that you want Markus?”

  “Well, I was hoping…do you still volunteer at the library?”

  Elyra froze, feeling a sharp twinge in her chest.

  “Um, yes, I do. I have been dedicated to my Friday appointment for some time now. Blame it on my tendencies toward the softer matters. Why?”

  A pompous grin inflated Markus’ smooth cheeks.

  “Now that I am in the final term of my internship, I am going to be in a full-time position of service to this great country, I thought I should donate my time more freely to those in need. I thought maybe I could join you some Friday in your efforts?”

  Elyra’s heart nearly stopped. Anger bubbled up in her belly. In the time that she had been volunteering, no one had ever questioned her actions or intentions. That was her time. Her project.

  “That’s very generous of you, but I’m sure your talents are required elsewhere. You wouldn’t want to waste your time tutoring Valley children, would you? I don’t imagine you have that kind of patience.”

  “Elyra,” he reached out and affectionately touched her shoulder. She stiffened. “I want to spend more time with you. If that means tutoring dirty street kids, I’ll do it,” he said laughing. She shook him off, irritated and offended.

  “The dirty street kids have all the help they need, thank you. Besides, don’t we get enough time together in these dreadful council meetings?” Her formal façade cracked as she lost her patience. She loathed these attempts to cuddle up to her.

  Markus sighed, clearly frustrated.

  “Well then…can I take you out for dinner sometime? It would be fun to get out into the city, don’t you think?” She fought the urge to gag. He’d spent the past ten years doing everything he could to get in her way. Now, suddenly she was his soul mate?

  “I don’t think that’s such a good idea.” She averted her eyes.

  “Why do you insist on pushing me away? After all we’ve been through, don’t I at least deserve a chance?”

  She grimaced. Yes, they had known each other most of their lives. They had witnessed a lot growing up. But when had it ever been together? When had he ever been by her side and not knocking her out of the way to chase after her father? Before she could respond, Henri came down the hall and stopped next to them.

  “There are my two favorite children,” Henri said in a jolly tone he never used when he was alone with his daughter. “Planning something fun for the afternoon?” Markus grinned and took Elyra’s hand.

  “Just catching up. Lately, I feel we never have any time to connect.” Markus gave her hand a gentle squeeze. She firmly, yet gracefully, ripped her hand from his grip and smiled falsely.

  “It’s so nice to see my girl spending time with the right sort,” Henri said. “She spends so much time knee-deep in poverty, I’ve half a mind to think she’ll up and marry a butcher’s son one of these days.”

  “Duty calls for us all in different ways,” Elyra responded.

  “My daughter, the philanthropist.”

  “She has a good heart, Your Grace,” Markus chimed in.

  Elyra put her hand to her heart an exaggerated gesture of flattery.

  “Kind of you to say. But now you’ll have to excuse me. I have a great deal of poverty to attend to.” She offered a polite smile to Markus and her father and hurried down the hall.

  She heard Markus call out a “we’ll catch up later” but pretended not to hear, bypassing the west wing lift and scrambling up the three flights of stairs. Once safely in her room, she threw down the padlock and sighed in relief, berating herself for letting Markus get under her skin. Was he really that bad? She had known him her entire life. As her father’s ward and his foster son after his parents died, he’d been like a brother to her—or more like an irritating cousin that wouldn’t go home. Even as a child he was just like the rest of them—hungry for power and control. Always so eager to stick his nose in political plans. True, he had grown up since he’d played soldier when they were children, tormenting her with wooden swords and sling shots. He was well spoken, ambitious and she supposed he was handsome in a manicured sort of way with gentle eyes and thick sandy hair always skillfully styled.

  She shook her head at the thought. Despite his recent congeniality, she could hear every ambitious plot in his mind. She’d also grown up from the skinny, bratty princess that just wanted to run around outside and ride her horse backward without a saddle. She was preparing to rule a country—a vital part of the political system. She was educated, fluent in five languages, and some said she was even beautiful. At the risk of vanity, she knew she had grown into a good catch, even by princess standards. Markus had never been shy about his political aspirations and she presented a convenient stepping stone. How proud her father would be if the son he never had married the daughter he was stuck with. On paper they would have made a genius couple: the ambitious and disgustingly wealthy son of Batem and the beautiful soft-hearted altruistic princess, side by side, curing the sick and feeding the hungry while restoring Arelanda to its glory days. It would never happen. Last she checked, even the daughter of the great King Henri the II of House Ballantyne had some say in her own life. She wouldn’t be anyone’s pawn.

  CHAPTER 15

  The room was dim and the air was thick with sweat and hot breath. A few antiquated overhead lamps flickered and buzzed and Rogan could hear the drip of water somewhere in the shadows. Cable sat at the front table, scouring over papers, squinting to read the words in the poor light. Donal and Ben sat in the corner, sipping dark red wine from a small canning jar with their eyes fixed hard on Cable. Iris hovered beside the table, stepping back and forth unnecessarily. Sibby, Mikkel and Alec sat cross-armed and brooding. Whatever Cable had just announced didn’t bode well for the group. Rogan cut through the crowd of tables to sit beside Donal and Ben. Donal was mindlessly rubbing his gray-streaked beard and Ben sucked away at a cigarette.

  “What’s going on?” Rogan whispered. “Feels like a funeral in here.”

  “Might as well be. The King’s going to be the death of us all, anyway,” Ben said. Rogan raised an eyebrow. “The council just passed a new farm tax to raise local distribution by two points.”

  “Two points? They can’t do that! That’s a fortune,” Rogan snapped a little too loudly.

  “Well they did,” Donal said. “And there’s not a damn thing we can do about it.”

  “Easy for you to say, old man,” Ben snapped. “It’s not your farm that’ll bear the brunt.”

  “Oh no?” Donal turned to him. “And what do you suppose the vintners will have to do once the distribution taxes go up? They raise their damn costs, you half-wit. Then who do you think has to raise their costs to keep their profits from rotting away?” Donal pushed a wine glass toward Benton to make his point.

  “Well then, we’re all fucked,” Ben picked up the glass and took a swig.

  Rogan assessed his companions. Alec’s eyes were alive with that unpredictable rage of his. His twin sister Sibby scanned the room like a nervous deer. Mikkel sat still and calm, his hollow eyes stuck to the dirty cannery floor. Rogan knew his family’s financial situation was gr
owing dire, but Mikkel was looking worse each time he saw him.

  “So what’s the plan?” Rogan asked.

  “Hasn’t been discussed yet. Iris just brought Cable the news,” Ben said.

  “Iris? How did she find out?”

  Donal twisted his mouth.

  “She snuck into a damn county government briefing at City Hall. A private briefing I might add,” Donal emphasized the last line loudly enough to pull Iris’ ear. “Got herself some fake government credentials. Wonder where she got those.” He turned, glaring at Rogan.

  Thank you Jova, Rogan thought.

  “We can’t be the last to know these things, Da,” Iris said. “We’d already owe back taxes before they educate the Valley on the new laws, and you know it. We’re a bunch of pheasants in a barrel out here.”

  “Damn risky behavior. I should never have let her hang around all of you degenerates.” Despite Donal’s misgivings about the situation, it was obvious even he knew Iris was right.

  “It was good of you to bring it straight to Cable, Iris,” Rogan said, squeezing her forearm affectionately. “I hope you know how much you mean to this cause.”

  Iris blushed and lowered her eyes, tugging on her black leggings absently.

  At one time, she would have infiltrated the council itself if it meant winning Rogan’s affection. But he knew she had long come to accept that there was never going to be anything more between them. Regardless, her cheeks flushed at his touch and he did his best to ignore the effect he had on her.

  “What are we going to do about what Ben brought us?” Rogan asked.

  Donal sighed but didn’t look at him.

  “I haven’t decided yet.”

  “What did Ben bring you?” Iris asked.

  “Nothing,” Donal snapped. She scowled and opened her mouth to protest but Cable called out to hush the buzzing crowd, interrupting her.

  “Quiet. Quiet!” Cable shouted. He was dressed in faded jeans and a plaid work shirt. His shaggy brown hair was loose and he was unshaven, but he still looked tall and commanding. “I’ve read over the bill. It’s all here, plain as day. Commencing January first of this coming year, all distribution of wine within the ten counties of Arelanda will be subject to a two point increase in local tax.”