Song of Blood & Stone (Earthsinger Chronicles #1)(69)

“Return them?” Nirall asked, aghast.

“What is a handful of savages compared to peace?”

Jack ground his teeth together. “And what makes you think the True Father would keep this promise of peace? What confidence do we have in his word?”

“We have negotiated peace treaties before,” Pugeros said.

“And they have all been broken. Whether in five years, fifty, or one hundred there is always another breach!” Jack slammed a hand on the table for emphasis. “He wants out of that Sovereign-forsaken desert he’s been stuck in. That hasn’t changed. What happens if we return the refugees and the Mantle falls anyway? He will be that much more powerful before he comes to invade us. We have no leverage here.”

“It is a risk,” Stevenot said thoughtfully.

“A great one,” said Nirall, adjusting the spectacles on his face. “We will need time to consider the ramifications. Let us bring this to a vote tomorrow.” He looked to Jack for confirmation. Jack gave his assent but stayed seated as the rest of the men filed out.

He did not move for a long time.




Jasminda jumped at the knock on the door. Nadal had just taken away her breakfast tray and the drumming did not have the rapid cadence of Jack’s knock. She approached with caution, mindful of Calladeen’s menacing tone the night before.

“Who’s there?”

“Miss Jasminda, it’s Usher.”

She relaxed and opened the door, glad to see him. His gray head and kind face were welcome sights. Over the past week he’d delivered notes from Jack, assisted her in finding the library and helped in other small ways.

“Please, sit,” she said, leading him to her favorite place in front of the fire.

“Thank you, miss.” The smile in his eyes was edged with sorrow. “I overstep my bounds a great deal by coming here.”

“Jack did not send you?” She hadn’t recognized the bubble of hope blossoming within her until it suddenly deflated.

“Not precisely. But I have looked after him since he was born, and I know how his mind works.”

He tapped his fingers on the armrest, clearly choosing his words carefully.

“Prince Edvard, Jack’s father, was not an easy man. Alariq’s mother was his true love and when she died, something in him changed. He remarried, but Jack and his mother were not well treated.”

Usher sat back in his chair, clasping his hands before him. Jasminda hung on his every word and movement, eager for this glimpse into the boy Jack had been.

“It did not help that he was a peculiar child, given to flights of imagination. Did you know he painted? From a very young age he was able to create the most beautiful landscapes you’ve ever seen. It was quite a remarkable gift.”

“Can I see them? Are they hanging in the palace somewhere?” She had been right when she first met Jack and thought him an artist. Something about his soul was far too bright to have been made for the military.

Usher lowered his head. “All of his paintings were destroyed. Burned by his father shortly before Jack was sent away to train. He did not paint again.”

Jasminda sucked in a breath.

“Princess Rienne, his mother, slowly wilted, becoming more and more withdrawn, hiding away from society. When Jack would come home to visit, she would rally a bit, but he did not know how bad it had gotten until after Edvard’s death. Even before then, the rumors and gossip flowed. Her bizarre behavior, skipping important functions, acting oddly when she did appear. By the time of Edvard’s death, she was being openly vilified in the press, some going so far as to blame her for the prince’s heart attack.”

Usher rubbed the bridge of his nose, then locked his gaze on her. “When she left, she took a piece of that boy with her. He was only ten years old and blamed himself for not protecting his mother from his father, and from the rest of the country, as well. The press, the gossipmongers—in her absence, the brunt of their scrutiny fell on him, and it has followed him ever since.”

Jasminda nodded, as the reason for Usher’s visit became clear. “He wants to protect me.”

“As much as he can, yes. He needs it.”

Her throat ached for the boy he had been and the man he had become. She wiped away the single tear that trickled down her face. “Where is he?”




Usher led her through the bowels of the palace, down many steep staircases, each older than the last. Here, the original stone walls and floors had not been plastered over or carpeted. Kerosene lamps instead of electric shone dimly, lending an acrid tinge to the cool air, though to Jasminda’s mind, torches would not have been out of place.

“This is the oldest part of the palace, Miss Jasminda. It is used exclusively by the Prince Regent, and none but his most trusted are allowed entry.”

Something odd brushed against her senses. The energy of this place was almost overwhelming. She opened herself the tiniest bit to Earthsong, once again testing out the shielding technique. The crush of the city hovered in her periphery, but an even stronger force snapped her connection shut. She gasped and wobbled on her feet. Usher reached out to steady her.

“I’m all right, I just— There’s something odd about this place.”

Usher grew solemn. “Come and see.”

The hallway in which they stood ended with a door. He pushed it open with some difficulty and motioned her through. Giving him a quizzical look, she stepped cautiously and found her feet sliding down almost immediately. The floor was like a bowl; the inside of the room a white sphere with the door hanging in the middle. Candles glowed eerily from little alcoves notched into curved walls made of no material she could fathom. Everything was smooth and white, but the shadows from the candles flickered gloomily.