Spindle Fire (Spindle Fire #1)(40)
“Sleeping sickness, I know. I have my ways,” she answers, not willing just now to explain that she nearly drowned and was saved, only to be unceremoniously dumped on an abandoned and reeking dock miles from the palace. “And I will only explain why I am here to the prince himself. Please prove to me that you are in fact William of Aubin.”
“I must prove my identity to you?” he asks with faint amusement. “I could have you sent to the dungeons for the rest of your life for trespassing.”
“Give me your hand,” Isbe demands.
She hears him hesitate, clearly taken aback by the forwardness of her request. But then, gently, he picks up her right hand and places it on his palm. She moves her fingers over his, feeling the strength and sturdiness of his hand before running her fingertips over his rings until she finds what she’s searching for—the royal Aubinian signet.
Satisfied, she turns her face toward his. “It is you.”
“How did you get in here?” he asks, sounding sincerely curious. “The palace is quite well defended. If my castle guard is sleeping on the job, they’ll be hearing about it soon enough. You’ve embarrassed a family—and a nation—known for our caution.”
“I’ve lived in a palace all my life. I know my way around.”
“Well, you’ve made quite an impression.”
She’s not sure what to think of the comment, but once again she feels the weight of his gaze, and it makes her uncomfortable. She clears her throat. “We need to talk. I’m here to seek your . . . well.” She hesitates, realizing she should have planned her speech better. “My kingdom needs your help. I—I need your help. You have to come with me back to Deluce. At once. Now, in fact. We should leave today.”
“Travel to Deluce? With you? That’s ridiculous.”
“It’s not ridiculous! I . . . we—this is an emergency. Deluce is desperate. You’re our only hope at the moment.”
William sighs. “I’m very sorry, Isabelle. Really, I am. The sleeping sickness sounds terrifying. I hate that Aubin has had to close its borders, but we can’t afford a crippling plague when times are hard enough as it is. I really am very sorry indeed, but I don’t see what I could possibly do to help.”
“Sorry indeed? Don’t be an idiot, William. Don’t act like you don’t know that both our kingdoms are in danger. And I’m very sorry for the loss of your older brothers—” She feels a little bit bad about spitting out that last part. “But the responsibility to do the right thing for Aubin lies in your hands now. I hope you don’t intend to let your kingdom fall to Malfleur.”
“Ah, so this is a political visit.”
“What else would it be? I’m not here for a hot cup of tea!”
“No,” the prince says, that gentle swaying-tree sound back in his voice. “You certainly are not.”
“I’m here to talk about how our countries can help each other in a time of great peril. The threat of Malfleur is real, no matter how much you’d like to deny it.”
“I don’t deny it,” he says, pacing. “Aubin has long suspected Queen Malfleur’s dissatisfaction with the LaMorte Territories. We’ve been anticipating a move on her part for years. But that doesn’t mean I’ll help Deluce.”
This surprises Isbe. Her impression, both from the palace as well as her brief time in the country at Roul’s home, has left her believing that the majority of people doubt Malfleur will ever organize. And certainly most of them don’t know what Isbe knows.
“If you agree with me that the faerie queen is a true threat, then how can you conscionably refuse to help? Who do you think will be next if Deluce falls? Once she has all our gold and our caverns of wine, what do you think she’ll come for? The sunny shores of Aubin, that’s what.”
“Perhaps,” William says. “But unlike Deluce, we have weapons. We’re prepared for war. Deluce, on the other hand, is fattened with wealth and pride, lazy, ignorant, and massively divided by infighting. Your people are unhappy, your military wildly disorganized, and now a devastating disease is sweeping through the aristocracy, beginning at the very top. An alliance would be imprudent at best, and more likely doomed.”
Isbe feels as though she has been punched in the jaw. She is floored by this account of her kingdom. The sting of his assessment is made worse by the faint taste of truth in it.
She blinks rapidly, trying to regain her composure. She needs to try a new tactic. “Malfleur’s people killed your brothers. Isn’t that enough to incite vengeance?”
“That portrait of the situation is only one view.”
“What do you mean?” Isbe feels her face getting hot with frustration.
“We have every reason to suspect that Deluce, and not LaMorte, is responsible for the murder of my brothers,” William says, his words hard as stone on stone.
“But—I—why?”
“Because your kingdom doesn’t want this alliance any more than ours does. If you really think your royal council is acting in the general interests of the populace, then you are wrong. It seems I know what the Delucian peasantry wants more than you do, Isabelle. They are sick of seeing the lavish waste of the upper classes while they work and suffer.”
She swallows hard. “And Aubin’s peasants are living in luxury, I suppose?” she asks, sweeping her arms around to indicate the decadence of the room, though even as she does, she realizes that from what she’s observed so far, this palace is in fact far less furnished, decorated, and perfumed than the Delucian palace.