“Men have died for less, palmist,” Givens snarled. “Step away.”
But the Queen checked him with a gesture. She was looking at Brenna oddly, and Elyssa sensed an unspoken conversation taking place.
“Leave us,” the Queen said abruptly.
“Absolutely not,” Givens replied. Elyssa waited for her mother’s explosion, but the Queen turned a surprisingly benevolent eye upon Givens. She had a soft spot for him . . . for all the men who had fallen into her bed over the course of her reign, Elyssa thought sourly. Lady Glynn had often said that the basis of a good Crown was fairness, but her mother played a merciless game of favoritism.
“Givens, you may stay. Clear the rest of the room.”
Givens frowned; he didn’t like it, but the Queen’s latitude only went so far. He signaled the rest of the Guard to leave, and Elyssa too tried to melt away . . . then froze, as her mother’s voice rang out.
“Elyssa?”
“Yes, Mother?”
“Later, at a time of our leisure, we will discuss what happened here today.”
“Yes, Mother,” Elyssa replied, feeling her stomach drop. She waited, but her mother said nothing else, and after a moment Elyssa darted to the back of the dais and scrambled off, heading for the hidden door at the back of the throne room, guards re-forming around her as she went. Barty, the Captain of Elyssa’s Guard, grunted in disapproval—he had remonstrated with her many times about simply running off without a word—but said nothing. Two of her guards, Elston and Coryn, opened the cleverly concealed door behind the throne, and Elyssa hurried out, toward the staircase that led up to the Queen’s Wing.
“Well, you’re in for it now, Highness,” Niya remarked beside her. Elyssa hadn’t even noticed the maid following, but she was rarely far away. That gift for unobtrusive closeness had promoted Niya to Elyssa’s Dame of Chamber, though she was far newer to the Keep than any of Elyssa’s other servants.
“I am in for it,” Elyssa agreed bleakly, then turned to Barty. “Barty, send someone to look after that man from the Blue Horizon.”
Barty frowned. “Your mother’s medics will take care of him.”
“I don’t trust my mother’s medics. For that matter, I don’t trust my mother. I want you to keep an eye on him.”
“If you insist, Highness. Coryn!” Barty barked.
“Sir?” Coryn asked from behind them.
“Your duty. Check on the boy when we get back, and then at least twice a day.”
“Sir.”
Barty turned back to Elyssa. “Satisfied?”
Elyssa nodded. Coryn was in training to be a medic himself; he would know whether Gareth was getting proper care.
“Niya is right, Highness,” Barty remarked, after several more flights. “You shouldn’t poke at your mother. She will jab back.”
“I didn’t do it to poke at her.”
“Then why?” Barty asked, eying her suspiciously. “Because he’s a handsome young man?”
“Was he handsome? I couldn’t tell beneath all the bruises.”
“Ah, this is about Culp, is it?” Barty shook his head. “I like that reptile no more than you do, child, but this is the world. You, too, will need an interrogator one day . . . Culp or some other.”
“I will not,” Elyssa replied, but she knew Barty didn’t believe her. He had captained Elyssa’s Guard since she was still in nappies, and Elyssa loved him like family, but sometimes he understood her well and sometimes not at all. Wishing to change the subject, Elyssa turned back to Niya.
“The seer. Do you think she’s genuine?”
“Perhaps, Highness.”
But Niya’s voice was tight with disapproval.
“You think she’s a fraud?”
“I don’t know, Highness.”
“Then what?”
“Let’s just say I dislike gifts, and particularly from men who whip tenants when they come up short on their quotas.”
Elyssa frowned at this news, but she did not doubt it, for Niya seemed to know everything. That was part of her value.
“When did this happen?” she asked Niya.
“On the last harvest. One of Lord Tennant’s farmers came up short, and so Tennant offered him a choice: he could either take it out of his family’s subsistence allowance, or take a whipping. The tenant had four children, so it wasn’t truly a choice.”
“Why whip the tenant? Wouldn’t the injuries only decrease his output further?”
“Yes, Highness. But some men simply like to whip.”
Elyssa grimaced. This was precisely the sort of victimization of the poor that her mother’s Crown was content to tolerate.
Arla the Just, Elyssa thought bitterly, climbing stair after stair. One day—
“I didn’t like the seer,” Carroll remarked behind her. “She made me feel cold. Hopefully the Queen will tire of her quickly, like all the others.”
“Ah, but the others were fakes,” Coryn pointed out. “What if this one’s the genuine article? She certainly looks the part.”
“Enough about the seer,” Barty growled. “What was that they were yelling out in the crowd? Something about the True Queen?”
The question was general, but Elyssa thought that Barty, too, was asking Niya. Niya understood much more of the world outside of the Keep than even the Guard did; she had been born on the streets of New London, and knew them as well as Elyssa knew the stones of the Queen’s Wing. But this time Niya said nothing, and so it was Kibb, one of the younger guards, who finally answered.
“I heard about it, sir. Last week on leave. There’s a rumor making the rounds in the city: some old woman has prophesied the coming of the True Queen.” Kibb paused, almost shyly, then added, “They—the people—think it means the Princess.”
“Christ,” Barty muttered. “All we need.”
“Perhaps it will help, sir,” Coryn suggested. “If the common people think—”
“It’s not the common people we have to worry about,” Barty growled. “Saviors are only useful to people who need saving. People who are fat and happy don’t want anyone meddling with the status quo.”
“But, sir, don’t you think—”
Elyssa listened to them bicker, only half hearing. True Queen. That was an old legend, much older than the Tearling; it went all the way back to pre-Crossing Anglia, to Arthur . . . the True King, the ruler who restored peace to the land and saved them all. No doubt someone had revived the old tale, to give people hope. They surely needed hope from somewhere; with a pulse of misgiving, Elyssa recalled what Lord March had said about the Crithe River, already drying up. Prolonged drought had brought down greater nations than the Tearling.