Song of Blood & Stone (Earthsinger Chronicles #1)(59)

A foreboding cadence tapped out a rhythm in her head. It matched the gentle vibration of the caldera pulsing at her side.




Somber men in dark suits with even darker expressions lined the streets. A few women were scattered among the group, as well, many waving hand-painted picket signs with slogans like Wages not Witchcraft!and Feed the people not the refugees!

Jack’s motorcade wound its way back to the palace from the radio station. The speech he’d recorded would play tonight, but he’d lost any hope that it would make a difference. He did not begrudge the people their anger, if only they would focus it in the right direction. They wanted him to do something, but what did they expect? For him to pull food from the parched ground? Produce ships from thin air? Had they forgotten he was not an Earthsinger? They needed someone to blame for the misfortunes of late, and the Lagrimari refugees were simply convenient.

A smaller group of refugee supporters stood closer to the palace and lifted his spirits somewhat. Not everyone in his land was so callous. Then a woman with a sign reading Why Now? rapped on the window as the limo slowed for a sharp turn. Yes, why now? Why him?

When he reached the palace, he headed straight for his office, each step heavy. Perhaps he could take an unscheduled break and sneak off to see Jasminda. The thought brightened him. However, Nirall was waiting for him outside his office door, banishing all fantasies of sneaking away. The man’s normally jovial face was grim. Jack forced out a warm greeting and led him inside where Usher was tidying up.

“You’ve seen today’s paper, Your Grace?” Nirall asked.

That very paper was now in Usher’s grip. Jack suspected the valet of trying to remove it before Jack saw it. He held out his hand; Usher frowned before relinquishing it.

The front-page article featured an interview with an eyewitness to the massacre at Baalingrove who told how Jack had threatened one of his own men with a pistol in order to save the lives of a group of murderous settlers. The term “grol sympathizer” was used by the anonymous interviewee. Jack seethed. The settlers hadn’t done anything to deserve the farmers’ attack. He needed to call Benn to find out how the inquiry into the massacre was progressing. He’d heard little about it during his week in Rosira, though it hadn’t been far from his mind.

“What passes for journalism these days is offensive,” he said, tossing the paper to the ground. Usher picked it up.

Nirall shook his graying head. “I have no doubt this was just a soldier with an axe to grind, Your Grace, but this refugee business has the people on edge.”

“And they blame me? For seeking to punish those who would murder innocent men? For failing to turn away these threadbare women and children? Is that what the people are saying?”

“Your Grace, the people simply want to know that their Prince Regent and their Council hear their voices and have their best interests at heart. They’re afraid helping the refugees is taking away vital resources from our own people.”

“And the rest of the Council has their interests at heart?” Jack shook his head. “If we could get more of them to see reason . . .”

Jack closed his eyes, wearied of the task in front of him. Whenever he dropped his lids he saw Jasminda’s face smiling back at him and the thought soothed him. The cares of the world disappeared every evening in her arms, but he would have to wait. With his plans of seeing her early now thwarted, he longed for nightfall and the comfort of her touch.

“What do you think Alariq would have done?”

Nirall exhaled slowly. “He would have examined all sides of the issue very carefully. Measured them twice to cut once.”

A hint of a smile cracked Jack’s bleak face. “He would have measured them no less than four times. That’s why he was a good prince.”

Nirall leaned in, resting his elbows on his knees. Round spectacles and a gray-streaked goatee in need of trimming gave him a professorial air. “Alariq was also very good at deflecting.”

“How do you mean?”

“Sometimes, when people are up in arms about something, they need their attention to be redirected elsewhere.”

Jack frowned. “What could redirect them?”

Licks of fire reflected in the man’s spectacles, setting his eyes aglow. “The people have been displeased over the shortages for some time, but the royal wedding was going to be the perfect distraction. The right mix of glamour and austerity, of course, but an event to capture the public’s imagination all the same.”

With a sigh, Jack slumped further in his chair. “I’m sure that would have done the trick. It’s too bad they could not have wed. I hope Lizvette’s spirits are not too low.”

“She’s quite well. And she would still make a very fine princess.” Nirall’s gaze held Jack in its grip.

He was dumbstruck. Several moments passed before he could respond. “You can’t be suggesting . . .”

Nirall reached for Jack’s arm. “Our two families are still a good match. A strong princess will go a long way to improve your public perception. A wedding, an heir, it would be—”

“That is ludicrous!” Jack stood. “Lizvette loved my brother. How could I . . . It would be extraordinarily inappropriate, not to mention in very poor taste. I’m not sure how you could even think such a thing?”

Nirall stood and bowed his head. “I did not mean to offend you, Your Grace. I was simply trying to offer a potential solution.”