The Will of the Empress

Daja watched Zhegorz follow the glass dragon’s flight as Chime dove and soared around the wood carvings of the ceiling. She began to grin, elated. “I begin to think I can cure dry rot with this stuff,” she said, proudly stroking the living metal on the back of her hand.

“Rosethorn would say pride will trip you on the stairs,” Briar said with a yawn. “Come on, Zhegorz. We’ll give those things a real trial in the morning.”

Daja got to her feet, wincing as her back complained after hours bent over her work. She was stretching when Zhegorz patted her shoulder. “I’ll tell you what they do in the morning. I’m sorry I ever said no one could see through metal spectacles.” He scuttled out of the room as Daja shook her head over him.

Tris caught her by surprise, swooping in to press a rare kiss on Daja’s cheek. “I know they’ll work,” she said. “Thank you, for him.”

“He’s my crazy man, too,” Daja said as Tris hurried from the room.

13

The 6th – 8th days of Rose Moon, 1043 K. F.

Clehamat Landreg to
Dancruan, Namorn

They traveled the next day with Ambros, his family and personal servants, their own servants, and ten men-at-arms for company, plowing or no. Even in the short time they had stayed at Landreg, Sandry noticed plenty of changes. The fields now flourished with assorted grain crops, made heartier and more immune to blight by Briar. He had done the same work in the orchards. Workers labored on the restoration of the bridge on the road to Dancruan. “By the time we return, it will be fixed,” Ambros said as Sandry waved to yet another knot of farmers who bowed to her from the fields.

It’s good to see all this progress being made, Sandry thought as they passed two wagonloads of mortar and slates destined for the repairs at Pofkim. Back at the castle, jewels that had belonged to her mother alone and were not part of the Landreg estate now lay in a locked box in Ambros’s study. In that same box were three copies of Sandry’s handwritten orders to her cousin. He was to sell the gems for any future work required to keep the estate thriving.

As they passed through the estate’s boundary walls, Tris scowled at her sister.

“What?” Sandry demanded, flushing slightly.

Tris drew even with her. “Will you just leave things like that?” she asked quietly. “The estate paying out to you and vulnerable to the empress’s taxes? They’re still in danger from those.”

“I’m going to see an advocate in Dancruan,” Sandry replied, keeping her voice soft. Ambros didn’t know her plans. “I’ll get a letter drawn up reducing my share and allowing Ambros to default on it entirely if taxes and estate work are high that year.” When Tris’s frown deepened, Sandry felt her temper start to boil. She stuck out her chin. “They’re my lands, left to me by my mother,” she whispered hotly. “I’m in the direct line of descent. As long as I have breath in my body, I will preserve that line of descent and inheritance, all fourteen generations of it! Those lands are mine—no one else’s! Don’t you dare lecture me about it, Tris. You don’t know the least thing about being nobleborn. About our ties to our lands and our names. My younger children will have Landreg to ensure their place in the world and the continuance of the Landreg name and bloodlines.”

Tris clenched and unclenched her hands on the reins. Heat bloomed under her breastbone as her face turned red in fury over the rebuke. She did not see the guards on her far side or the people who rode behind her check and move away as sparks raced over her coiled braids. Sandry got even angrier. Now they know we’re quarreling! she thought. Why can’t Tris ever keep her feelings to herself? Why does the world always have to know when she’s vexed?

Chime wasn’t afraid of lightning. It was the blood through which her magic flowed. She glided up to Tris from her seat on Daja’s saddle and landed on Tris’s head. Slowly, gently, the glass dragon sank her claws into Tris’s scalp.

“Ow!” Tris winced: Her concentration broke, and the lightning began to die. With no more new sparks being spawned, Chime began to lick up those that remained.

“No, I’m not noble,” Tris finally told Sandry in a voice that trembled. “And given that you’re turning into one just like the rest of those at court, I’m glad I’m not.” She turned her mount and rode back to Zhegorz, Gudruny, and her children, who rode in a luggage cart behind the others.

“Is something wrong?” Ealaga asked Sandry after Tris rode out of earshot.

Sandry shook her head, keeping it down so no one could see the tears of anger that sparkled in her eyes. Tris doesn’t know what being a noble means! Sandry thought. You can’t go about ignoring your family’s long history or the things all your ancestors did to build your name and your lands. It’s like telling them they never counted, if I lose my holdings as a Landreg, or worse, if I give them up. If I let Berenene take them for some reason. I owe my parents—my ancestors—the continuation of our line, and our name. Mama didn’t surrender the title when she married Papa. What excuse do I have?

Once they started to pass other people on the highway, Briar kept an eye on Zhegorz. It took some effort to do it without laughing, at least at first. Zhegorz was a sight, perched atop one of Sandry’s traveling trunks, a well-dressed scarecrow in a good clerk’s sensible gray coat and breeches, wearing what looked like shiny amber spectacles on his eyes. Sandry had even tied his hair back in a horsetail with a ribbon that was the same color as his spectacles. At first passersby got no chance to appreciate his new eyewear. As they came within view, Zhegorz pulled his broad-brimmed hat low over his face and bent down, trying to hide in plain sight. Later, he got more bold as parties overtook and passed them, or parties rode by. He flinched less and watched more.