State of Sorrow (Untitled #1)(53)
The moment Charon closed the door behind him, Sorrow began to pace. “I couldn’t find any papers, but I think we can assume that at the same time he signed the Lamentia decree, he will have signed a declaration that recognizes Mael as his son. Which makes Mael the obvious candidate for the chancellorship. And we know that will serve Vespus.”
Charon nodded his agreement.
“Do you think…? Do you think it’s possible they killed my father? I mean, once the papers were signed, they wouldn’t need him any more…”
Charon looked thoughtful, and when he finally answered, his tone was measured. “I don’t know. And because your father died as he did, we can’t prove it. I don’t like that Vespus kept the boy under wraps for two years, only to thrust him forward as we were about to depose Harun. And I don’t like that Harun has died hours after declaring Mael his son. It – like all of this – is too sinister to be a coincidence. But your father is – was – an addict. We can never prove he didn’t kill himself, albeit accidentally. Especially because we don’t know where Lamentia came from in the first place.”
Sorrow stopped pacing and pulled out a stool, sitting down so she could look into his eyes. “So … what do we do? When Mael says he wants to run for election – which he will – Samad and Kaspira will almost certainly support him over me, and so will Balthasar. If Bayrum, Tuva and Irris back me, it’ll be a tie. You’ll have to choose who gets to be on the ballot.”
Charon paused. “No. You’ll both run. You’ll both be on it.”
The skin on Sorrow’s arms prickled. “There has never, ever been more than one name on the ballot.”
“There have never been two eligible bloodline candidates willing to campaign. And unless we can prove he’s not really a bloodline candidate, he’s entitled to do so. I can’t stop him. The rules are clear. And Vespus will fight to see that’s acknowledged, mark my words. So you have to run against him.”
Sorrow swallowed. Two candidates. One female, and newly eighteen. One unknown, and more Rhyllian than Rhannish. One reluctant competitor, and one likely imposter.
If only there was proof that he wasn’t Mael Ventaxis.
There had been the moment in the inn where she’d felt a spark of … something. When she’d wanted to believe that the mark and the clothes and the portrait were cold, hard evidence. But that need was selfish, she knew that. The portraits could have been painted to look like the boy, and not how the real Mael might have looked. The clothes were Rhyllian crafted, and that made them unreliable – Vespus could have bribed or threatened the maker into creating a duplicate set. And the mark might be a tattoo – they weren’t uncommon in other realms. None of it was true, unarguable proof.
For her own part, she was almost sure he wasn’t Mael. But her almost-surety wasn’t enough. Charon’s absolute certainty that he couldn’t be Mael wasn’t enough. Harun had declared he was, and the only way to discredit that was to admit that Harun had spent the last two years under the influence of a substance, and that that had killed him.
The Jedenvat would be ruined. She would be ruined.
Charon fixed his dark eyes on her. “You said you didn’t want to be chancellor. That you weren’t ready. This could be your only chance to escape that fate, if you want to. This boy could take your place.”
It was so close to what Rasmus had said to her: “if that boy is your brother, it looks a lot like you might have a choice.” It would mean freedom. She could travel to the lands she’d dreamed of: Svarta, Skae. Rhylla. She could take time to decide who she was, and what she wanted to do. Maybe even try again with Rasmus, give him the chance he’d wanted. For one glorious moment she allowed herself that possibility…
And in doing so she would leave Vespus in control of Rhannon, with an imposter acting as his mouthpiece.
Vespus, who was so desperate for power, for Rhannish land, he made a play for it time and again. Vespus, who’d wanted the war to continue to secure it. He had no regard for the customs or people of Rhannon.
No regard for Rhannon at all. She’d seen the people, two days ago. Cowed and broken, dead-eyed and hopeless. Vespus wouldn’t care about helping them. He’d watched with apathetic eyes as the Decorum Ward beat the crowd back. He wouldn’t rein them in; he’d use them to keep control, to help him move the people from the land he wanted so badly.
She could have freedom, but the price was Rhannon. Charon, Irris, Bayrum, Tuva. They’d all suffer. And the people… She thought of her grandmother, and how hard she’d worked to temper her son’s orders. And Irris, who’d set aside her own dreams to try to step up when she was needed.
And like Irris, she was the only person who could step forward now. The only person who might stop Mael, and therefore Vespus. It was her, or no one.
Sorrow walked to the window and drew back the drapes. Charon had kept them closed, as the vice chancellor ought to. His room had a different view from hers, another side to the garden, and she recognized the pond she and Irris had sat beside the day before.
It was another beautiful day, one she hadn’t known about, because the curtains were closed.
She remembered the plans she and Irris had made, lying on her bedroom floor, what felt like a lifetime ago. The growth, and the art, and the hope they’d scrawled across the paper. The connections she’d wanted to make with Meridea, and Skae, and Svarta. The return of colour, and music, and flowers. A land where windows were opened, and children laughed. Where people looked to the universities, and the guilds, and began to build hopes and dreams around them. The Rhannon she’d heard about in stories.