State of Sorrow (Sorrow #1)(14)

“Both. I had Balthasar sent to the cells. I didn’t know what to do with Father.” She immediately imagined Harun as Alyssa had been, tearing at himself, the empty sockets of his eyes as he lay dying in front of his paintings.

Charon took a deep breath, and spoke quietly, mindful of the people still hovering ghoulishly at the door. “Sorrow, this drug is a disease, and we are losing the fraction of control we have on it. We can’t contain this any more, not if people like Balthasar and Alyssa are using it. The Graces know who else might be secretly under its influence.”

“I know…”

“Do you? Sorrow, if the people heard about this, if they knew your father – our chancellor – was in the grip of it… If our neighbours found out how weak we are… Astria and Nyrssea particularly might be inclined to try taking advantage of it. You know that. We can’t coast on your grandfather’s reputation for much longer. Harun is not Reuben Windsword, and frankly we’re lucky we’ve been able to hide it thus far. I fear those days are over. We must act.”

Sorrow couldn’t speak, managing only to nod her head. She couldn’t stop seeing Alyssa… Her hands clawing at her chest, trying to rip her clothes away… Her eyes…

“Father, I don’t think now—” Irris began, but Charon silenced her with a look.

“It has to be now.”

“What has to be now?” Sorrow asked, her voice colourless as glass.

“It’s time to have the chancellor declared unfit to govern and for you to be sworn in, officially, as chancellor presumpt until we can arrange a formal election.”

It was enough to shock her from her torpor. “I can’t. I can’t be the chancellor.”

“We can have the Jedenvat pass an emergency addendum that waives the law in light of extreme circumstances and you being the only heir. We’ll pass something that says you’ll co-preside with the Jedenvat until your twenty-first birthday. You’re eighteen in three days, so the part about residency will be fulfilled.”

“That’s not what I meant. I didn’t mean legally. I meant… I can’t…” Sorrow pleaded with Charon. “Charon, I can’t…”

“You have to. Sorrow, you must have known this was coming.”

She shook her head. Despite what Rasmus had said, she hadn’t believed it. Hadn’t wanted to.

Charon continued, his tone deliberately soft. “If it had been your father who died tonight, you’d have to take his place. Sooner or later it will be you anyway. This way, we have a fighting chance at helping him. We can find doctors to treat him – maybe it’s not too late to save his life. If we act now, we have the advantage. Better that than waiting for the chips to fall and then scrambling to pick them up.”

Irris’s arm tightened around Sorrow’s waist.

“I don’t want this,” Sorrow murmured.

“It doesn’t matter what you want; there is no one else,” Charon snapped, before taking a breath. “A woman died before your very eyes tonight. Before the eyes of two Rhyllian representatives and Meeren Vine. If something isn’t done, not only will it keep happening, but it will make the entire country vulnerable. I’ll call the Jedenvat to order. Tomorrow morning, before we leave for the bridge. We’ll vote on it.”

Irris’s arm tightened around Sorrow, and she was grateful for it. The bones in her legs had turned to liquid, her stomach aching with fear. It was happening too fast … she needed a moment to think, to plan. To breathe.

“It should be you,” Sorrow looked at Charon. “You should be the chancellor.”

“Sorrow, you know the laws. Only a member of the Ventaxis line can become chancellor.”

“I’m not ready,” she said finally. “I’m not ready for this.”

“Sorrow.” Charon’s voice was tender then, his dark eyes full of pity. “It doesn’t matter. Only Rhannon matters, and there is no one else. It’s you, or it’s no one.”





Bad Blood

Irris kept pace with Sorrow as they made their way back to Sorrow’s rooms, though neither spoke. The palace, always quiet, now seemed eerily so in the aftermath of Alyssa’s death; the only sound was the fluttering of the curtains as the two girls moved past them, the oil lamps guttering in the breeze they created. It was all Sorrow could do not to break into a run, and to keep running, out of the palace, out of Rhannon. Away from this place, and the legacy she didn’t want. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

But what choice did she have? Charon was right – there was no one else. Her family had seen to that, centuries ago. They were clever, her ancestors. Manipulative and canny. They’d paid off the nobles who’d survived the initial purge of the royal family – the Mizils, the Blues, the Marchants and others – buying their support with land and titles, and together they’d disposed of, or discredited, those who wouldn’t join them.

The time had been ripe for revolution, the nation starving while the royals feasted and feted. When the Ventaxis family and their supporters had risen up and overthrown the king, they’d become heroes. And they’d insisted they wouldn’t govern unless legally elected to the post; they didn’t want to repeat the mistakes of the monarchy.

They told the people they would get to choose their new leader. Somewhat like the kings, the chosen family would hold office for life, an enduring and stable authority, free from the uncertainties of other countries who changed leaders every five or so years. But – and the Ventaxis family insisted this was the crucial difference – their presence would a democratic one. One the people elected themselves, at the death of each chancellor.