Rebel Song Read online

  Elyra’s stomach churned.

  “Can’t say I ever have.”

  “And you need to be more careful, Elyra.”

  “Meaning?”

  “I’ve heard you’ve been vocal about encouraging a contender for the upcoming Council elections.”

  “And when did I supposedly say that?” Elyra brushed off the accusation.

  Brita shot her a dubious look.

  “When you talk, people listen. You have to be careful what you say to whom. Gossips will exaggerate even the smallest comment and turn it into something scandalous.”

  Elyra sighed.

  “I know. But you have to know I see corruption spreading like wildfire throughout this court. I love this country, but I see where we’re headed.”

  “I see it, too. And I’ve been in the capital a fraction of the time you have.”

  “You’d be surprised at how little I knew about anything that went on in this place until recently. They all pretended like I didn’t exist. And now, all I can see are lies in everyone’s eyes. They nod their heads and say what they think they have to in order to pacify me, but I know they snicker when I leave the room. Pantone would love nothing more than to see me out of the way.”

  “You’re not wrong.” Brita paused, searching Elyra’s face. After a few minutes of contemplation she continued. “Did you know that I finished secondary school at fifteen? Top of my class, a year early.”

  Elyra looked at her curiously then shook her head.

  “I didn’t know that. You must have been ambitious.”

  “I was. I went straight to the University in San Gran and at the end of my first year I got it in my head to run for City Council. I won. Don’t ask me how, but I won. Maybe the voters thought a child on the council would be comical. But guess what? Within a year, I had opened two homeless shelters within the city, coordinated a system to provide free meals to the needy and fronted a county bill that demands one percent of the taxes collected on wine sales to be allocated to agricultural restoration projects.”

  “That’s quite the resume,” Elyra suddenly felt somewhat embarrassed that her greatest achievement lately was getting little Ronnie Black to finally grasp subject-verb agreement.

  “Thank you. I agree,” Brita went on. “I finished my studies with a degree in Public Policy and was elected to the County Governor’s office shortly after as Secretary of Public Works, followed shortly as Lieutenant Governor of San Gran. I served there until the Great Council opened the position I now serve. I’m still a little in shock at how I ever won the seat, especially now that I know so much about the integrity of the electoral system here. But I think I seemed like an inoffensive choice for a position Pantone never really wanted.” She smiled.

  “Little did they know eh?” Elyra laughed.

  “I’m not trying to brag,” Brita went on. “It’s just that I want you to understand I came to the capital with real dirt-on-my-hands experience, through a real, honest election. And despite all that, I am the laughing stock of the council and a political pariah. My point, Elyra, is that you came to the council because you turned sixteen, not because you earned it. You can’t expect them to take you seriously. You haven’t earned their respect. You haven’t proved your worth.”

  Elyra’s eyes widened. No one had ever said anything so blunt—so honest—to her in her life. Ever.

  “I…” she stuttered. “What do I do?”

  “Earn it. Prove them wrong. If you truly care about the future of the country and the people the way you say you do, then you owe it to us all to stop this.” Brita eyes were calm and focused.

  “I can’t stop a war, Brita,” she said shaking her head. She sounds like Rogan.

  “How do you know?” Brita raised an eyebrow. “Ever tried?”

  “No wonder you’ve gotten as far as you have,” Elyra laughed. “You don’t even accept the concept of defeat.”

  “By the time we’re done, neither will you.”

  CHAPTER 28

  “The forces continue to rally I hear,” Markus Fortune said, pouring a snifter of aged brandy and giving it a gentle swirl. The fire cracked in the corner of Minister General Hugh Pantone’s dimly lit office. “There are rumors that factions in the northern counties are banding together. The governor up there has received threats. Quite legitimate ones it would seem.”

  “We don’t give in to idle threats,” Hugh Pantone said dryly. He leaned back in his plush mahogany arm chair, resting a hand on his well-endowed stomach, looking every bit the overfed aristocrat.

  “The violence is going to escalate. Between the rebels and the firms, we’re looking at a street war,” Markus said.

  “Good. Let them kill each other off. Fewer for us to worry about.”

  “I’m not sure the King shares your sentiment, Minister. He fears the message it will send the people if we do not make efforts to protect them.”

  “Protect them?” Pantone sputtered a laugh. “And we’re supposed to send aid to those who conspire against us in dark corners? The King is a fool. An outdated fool who has run his course.” His fat jowls shook with his grumbling. “It’s time for change.” He swigged his brandy.

  “You’re starting to sound a little like the reformists,” Markus smiled. Pantone grunted and scowled.

  “Reformists. They’re nothing but a band of disjointed provincials whining because they’d rather have a handout than work a little more during hard times. The King is too damn soft on them.” He took another quick swig of his brandy.

  “You might be the only one in Arelanda who thinks so.”

  “Henri talks a big game with regard to policy, but he hasn’t the stomach to crack down on those who need it. He should have hurt these bastards so hard the first time they’d never even dream of lifting those pitchforks again.”

  Markus smirked, thinking Pantone truly embodied the political cartoon in that morning’s paper: Pantone on a fluffy cat’s pillow-bed with two impoverished children fanning him and feeding him grapes from the vine.

  “Some would argue had he been more compassionate after the last war, we’d never have had the uprisings in the first place,” Markus debated.

  “You’ve been listening to that fish monger they have as their mouthpiece.”

  “I’ve heard there’s some fresh blood climbing the ranks. Son of some famous war hero or something.”

  Pantone snorted waved his hand as if to bat away the notion.

  “Oh, I’m shaking in my boots.” He reached for the crystal brandy carafe and filled his glass again. He leaned in to fill Markus’ but Markus waved his hand over his glass in decline.

  ”I thought you had the balls of the Fallon clan.”

  Markus smiled.

  “Having balls and having savvy are two very different things, my good minister. I won’t see this country trade one failed system for another.”

  “I’ve been in politics since you were at the tit, Fallon. Don’t think to tell me how it works.”

  “I’m only playing devil’s advocate, friend.”

  “Look, I’m not proposing overthrowing the monarchy. I’m not a complete fool. These people might groan about their mighty King but they love their damn heritage all the same. They’ll never part with the glory of their beloved royals and all those romantic notions that go along with them. Especially that little bitch of a princess.”

  Markus pursed his lips but resisted the urge to scowl.

  “Then we are at an impasse with the masses.”

  “Not necessarily.” Pantone swirled his glass and starred into the amber liquid as if he were studying it.

  “What cooks in that mind of yours, Pantone?”

  “If these people need their King and Queen and little princess, their happy royals, then we shall never part them from it. But that doesn’t mean we can’t put a crown on theses monarchs then lock them away from public policy. It’s going that way all over Europe. Henri’s been a fine ruler, but he’s dated. Hell, he’s been in power for thirty damn ye
ars.”

  “Look who’s calling the kettle black,” Markus grinned.

  “Where Henri is dated, my boy, I am merely seasoned.”

  “Right, of course. But, unfortunately for you, he’s got hardly a gray hair in his beard. The advantage of being the legendary boy king.”

  “Hmph. A boy king he was indeed. I was there the day they put that crown on his puny head. But despite that, he’s tired. He’s been at this nearly his entire life. Do you know what kind of toll that takes on a man? I watched King Rodillio drop dead—I know. Henri might not live to see his golden years, either. Then what? They hand over the gavel to that spoiled, idealistic daughter of his?”

  “That’s how it’s supposed to work,” Markus said dryly.

  “Oh come now, Markus. I know you’re infatuated with the little thing. Hard to blame you. She’s a looker and your ticket to a big fancy title that would outrank your sniveling brother.” Markus resented the accusation, but didn’t argue. “But you and I both know she is completely incapable of any political policy that extends beyond funding the local library.”

  “She’s young and inexperienced. Give her time.”

  “Time? What if we don’t have time? Henri took the reins at fourteen. It’s her duty to be prepared for the unexpected. Maybe it’s Henri’s fault for not preparing her, but either way she just doesn’t have it in her.”

  “I don’t see your point, Hugh. It is what it is. You said yourself, you’re not going to try to singlehandedly dismember the monarchy.”

  “And you said she’s young and inexperienced. Perhaps what she needs is a strong partner who can direct her.” Pantone smiled menacingly.

  “And?” Markus raised an eyebrow.

  “And you have all the makings of a ruler, my son. You were born to be a lord. Why not be a prince consort?”

  “My brother was born to be a lord.” Markus sipped his brandy.

  “Come now. You know damn well that Hildon can hardly lace his own boots, let alone run a province. Had the world been fair, you would have come out of your mother first, not that whelp. Proof the Sants are just empty statues if you ask me.”

  “I didn’t ask. Look, it’s not as though my feelings for her are a secret. She wants nothing to do with me.”

  “Then perhaps you need to try harder. She needs to understand that this isn’t just about romance and storybooks, but about the good of the people, the nation. She has a head full of fantasies. She needs a shot of reality.”

  “And what possible interest could you have in my relationship with Elyra?”

  Pantone put his hand to his heart.

  “I just want you to be happy Markus.” Markus glared at him. “And I would be lying if I said your union wouldn’t be slightly advantageous. Our war efforts could really use Hildon’s support and he has been less than generous so far. Perhaps a royal marriage for his favorite brother would motivate him?”

  Markus shook his head in disbelief.

  “You talk of Henri living in the past. Will you listen to yourself? It doesn’t work like that anymore. She’s not a horse, she’s a woman. The princess.”

  “Markus, you are a smart young man, but you are naïve. Things can work exactly like you’d want them to if you know the right moves.”

  “I’m not going to try to force her to love me.”

  “Why is it always about love?” Pantone sighed. “You have my support—I’ve spoken at length with Henri about it and you have his support. Let us just see what a little political and social pressure can do.”

  “You’re a cunning old bastard Pantone, you know that?”

  “I am not where I am today by the grace of your Sants. I know you have enough ambition to see that.” He raised his brandy. “A toast. To a new future. A brighter Arelanda on the horizon.”

  “If you say so,” Markus said reluctantly. They clinked glasses and drank.

  CHAPTER 29

  Rogan thrust the final crate of bread onto the long linen-covered table in the Sant Hiro’s Temple courtyard and stretched his back. The scent of freshly baked bread tickled his belly but he couldn’t in good conscience crack open a loaf earmarked for the downtrodden. He instead swigged from his water canteen and promised himself that as soon as he was done he was heading straight to Viola’s for the biggest piece of fried bread and bacon she’d ever served.

  “You’re good to help out today son,” High Father Broden said, patting Rogan on the shoulder. “There aren’t enough strong shoulders these days willing to share their time with those in need.”

  “It’s no trouble Father. I was just hoping I’ll actually get to try some of this bread that Lorena’s been baking all morning. The smell is enough to drive a man mad.”

  “We’ll be sure to save you a slice,” the father grinned. “Come now, I need your help with the stew pots. You won’t believe the amount of food the good Minister has gathered for us. She’s a blessing that one.”

  “Minister? Didn’t think there was a decent bone in the lot.”

  “This one’s different. Name’s Brita Falcon. Fairly new and exceptionally young for a minster. And a woman at that. How the times have changed. She’s running the public works and isn’t afraid to get her hands dirty. Even had a meeting with me personally to arrange all this, find out what we need most. ‘Ms. Falcon,’ I told her. ‘What we need most is plain old food to fill these bellies out here.’ In my time here in the temple, I’ve never seen so many in need.” Father Broden looked around the square and sighed.

  “You’re doing the best you can, Father. Times are hard. The whole city is grateful. Now show me the stew pots.”

  They walked to the storage shed adjacent to the temple where the day’s supply of thick bean stew, brown pears and bread were stacked up. One by one, with the help of a few others, they set up an assembly line of food along the long wooden table, ready to feed hordes of the hungry.

  The needy began to file in from the streets about 10 a.m. There had been a great deal of publicity surrounding the largest food drive that the city had ever seen and the word had gotten out that no one would be turned away even if they had to run back into the kitchen and bake more bread. The media were perched on the outskirts of the temple courtyard, eager to cover the story, snapping photos of the piles of bread and cauldrons of bubbling bean stew. Rogan’s heart broke a little as he saw the shadows of what were once whole people, bones held together by sallow skin, gingerly walk toward the meal as if they weren’t sure if they were wandering into some trap—like beaten dogs that no longer trusted the scent of humans. He had to resist the urge to kick the reporters hunched down, snapping photographs of the vulnerable. Their misery should not be a headline.

  A dark-haired child with wide, pale green eyes brushed passed him. The child’s hair was a short ratted mess and it was so sunken and shapeless Rogan couldn’t tell if the creature was a boy or a girl. The child was followed by a haggard woman carrying a baby and an old man, crooked and hunched with a toothless mouth. Rogan watched sullenly as one after the other moved passed him, their eyes lighting up as they gripped the first piece of fresh, steaming bread.

  “It breaks your heart, doesn’t it?” A woman’s voice startled him.

  Rogan turned to see a tall, slender woman in a tailored pant suit, platinum blonde hair pulled into a sleek twist standing beside him, arms crossed and looking out into the crowd with a furrowed brow.

  “It’s an atrocity, is what it is. We’ve got more than enough food to go around here. No excuse for it ever getting to this,” Rogan replied.

  The woman looked at him curiously and nodded.

  “You must be Rogan Elwood.”

  Rogan straightened and raised an eyebrow.

  “Guilty. How’d you know?”

  “You fit your description marvelously.” She grinned. “Father Broden told me if I needed anything to ask Rogan Elwood, the dark and handsome, strong-jawed one sure to be lurking in a corner with the wheels turning and ire in his eyes.”

  Rogan al
most protested but had to agree.

  “I guess I can be on the morose side at times. And you are?”

  “Brita Falcon.” She extended a smooth hand to him. He took it gingerly and gave it a firm shake.

  “So you’re the one I’m to thank for this, Ms. Falcon?”

  Brita smiled softly.

  “I hardly feel right accepting thanks for something that shouldn’t have to be asked to be done.”

  Rogan nodded and smiled.

  “I think that’s the most honest thing I’ve ever hear from a politician.”

  She laughed.

  “Me too.”

  “Nice to meet you, Ms. Falcon.”

  “Brita, please. Thank you for being here today, Rogan. It’s one thing to convince the council to allocate funds for a hunger drive, it’s quite another to rally enough strong arms and good hearts to make it happen. Pantone is perfectly willing to write a check if the publicity is hot, but Sants help us if I ever saw him lift a chubby finger.”

  Rogan let a laugh escape him. Brita looked at him, almost embarrassed.

  “I’m sorry.” Rogan collected himself. “You just don’t hear people talk so openly about our dear Minister General around here. That sort of comment is usually reserved for dark pubs and a few pints.”

  Brita grinned at his candor.

  “He’s just a man like any other. I won’t be bullied by his superiority complex. No great god anointed him King as far as I know.”

  “Brita, I do think I like you.”

  It seemed the swarms of hollow-eyed needy would never end. Like a slow rolling train they just kept moving through, reminding Rogan of why they met around dim tables in the lamplight to plan their future—why they couldn’t sit back in the shadows any more.

  It was nearing midday—rays of sun finally breaking through the coastal fog—when a voice projected through the crowd.

  “Your Royal Highness!”

  Rogan shot his head up and saw Father Broden extending his arms in welcome to a small group. “It is so good of you to be here today,” Broden said gratefully.

  A shock of burning cinnamon hair emerged from the small group and Rogan felt his belly clench.