The Price of Power
“Wait, Your Majesty!”
“If you have the strength to speak, use it to move your body!”
At Richelle and Marion’s shouts, Virginia came to her senses. Even to her untrained eye, Richelle’s movements were beautiful. Richelle swung her sword through the air with a sharp whistle, and when Marion barely managed to block, she closed in, hooked his leg, and sent him sprawling. As his blade slid aside, she slammed the pommel into his jaw. When he collapsed, she pressed relentlessly, thrusting at his throat, then kicking him hard in the back as he tried to dodge. Every motion flowed as though it had been ordained from the beginning; there was not a single wasted instant in Richelle’s assault. She could not, even in jest, be called a “gentle lady.” She attacked the defenseless Marion with cruel, merciless precision—dodging his desperate attempts to evade her kicks, then driving her heel into his jaw from the opposite direction, yanking him down by the hair the moment he tried to rise, and stomping on his stomach once his back was exposed.
Richelle looked less like a noblewoman and more like a demon. Yet Virginia found herself wanting to cheer her on. That, in itself, was a profound change. Her little mistress—Richelle, who had become Queen of Zylan only days ago—had suffered terribly at her husband’s hands on the second day of her reign. As someone who cherished Richelle, Virginia could never forgive that, no matter how much Prince Marion might feel for her. In Virginia’s eyes, Prince Marion was simply receiving the punishment he deserved, and the sight of it was deeply satisfying.
Still, a small unease lingered. She glanced down at the embroidery in her lap. For all the time she had held the needle, remarkably little progress had been made. Only a few sparse stitches outlined grapes and a lark. Had her mind been as it once was, she would never have spent three days clutching the frame with nothing but the barest framework to show for it. In truth, she had only truly sewn for a single day. Yesterday her thoughts had been tangled by her conversation with Prince Leo; the day before that, she had gone to confront Prince Marion and ended up drinking with King Philip. This cloth had been meant to commemorate Richelle’s coronation, a garment she had intended to fashion into something beautiful for her. She had planned to embroider symbols of fertility and peace so that Richelle might enjoy a happy marriage—had planned to.
But it seemed Richelle did not want such a marriage after all. Until yesterday, Virginia would have insisted Richelle do what was right regardless of her wishes. Now she could not. Even if she wished to guide Richelle properly, the sole purpose of that guidance had to be Richelle’s happiness. If discipline only drove Richelle to despair, then the entire endeavor would be pointless.
“Haa.”
She sighed. Though the sunlight had grown stronger, Richelle showed no sign of tiring as she continued to “train” Marion—an exercise that more closely resembled an endless beating, though it was clearly Richelle’s own form of entertainment. Virginia had always thought only of steering Richelle onto the correct path. But what if the path she had envisioned was never truly correct? What if she had simply been pressing Richelle without leaving any room to breathe? In other words—what if she had been wrong all along?
If so, then what she must do was clear. Even now, she needed to overhaul Richelle’s education from the ground up. Not only the curriculum, but her entire manner of treating Richelle had to be rebuilt from beginning to end. And the chrysanthemum and grapevine patterns would likely no longer suit.
She sighed once more. The time had come to make a decision. It already felt far too late. She thought of the pain Richelle must have endured, and for the first time she felt that pain as her own. The more she thought of Richelle, the tighter her chest became. She exhaled another weary sigh—she had lost count of how many—and looked down at the embroidery frame in her hands. Without hesitation, she drove the needle into the cloth, well outside the planned outline of grapes and lark.
She could still mend this, she thought. She prayed that she could.
While Virginia wrestled with these thoughts, Richelle moved with fierce energy, pummeling Marion without mercy. At last Marion’s strength gave out; her eyes rolled back and she collapsed. Richelle’s sword had been aimed at Marion’s throat, but when no response came, she halted the blade mid-air. With a rough laugh, she delivered one final, powerful kick to Marion’s back, confirmed that her opponent had truly lost consciousness, and sheathed her sword.
There were few things more effective at dispelling a foul mood than violent exercise—except, perhaps, unleashing violence upon someone you disliked. Having accomplished both, Richelle wore a broad smile. She returned the blade to its scabbard and summoned a servant to carry Marion back to her chambers.
Of course, Richelle had not continued this “training” merely to torment Marion. Though few believed it, she did possess thoughts of her own. Of the many matters that had demanded her attention over the past year, four had been paramount. She had resolved most of them. Domestic and foreign threats had been neutralized. The Zylan nobles who opposed her succession had been greatly weakened, and the foreign interference that had supported them had been eradicated. As for the long-standing problem of the unreliable northern allies—led by the Count of Zad—Richelle believed that placing the count’s duties under the supervision of the Archbishop of Clondel would allow indirect control. Yet one issue remained stubbornly unresolved, and it was still deeply troublesome. Though Richelle had only confronted it for about a year, its roots ran deeper than the history of the Zylan kingdom itself. She had avoided and postponed it until now, but eventually she would have to face it head-on.
Political worries threatened to erase the satisfaction she had only just gained. Irritation rising, she stamped one foot; the expected impact, however, was far weaker than anticipated. Three days ago—before the coronation—she had been incomparably lighter, and the voice calling her name only heightened her annoyance.
“Your Majesty.”
“What are you still doing here?”
When the servant she had ordered to remove Marion reappeared, Richelle snapped at him. Even her own voice displeased her. She forced herself to lower her tone.
“Why are you still here?”
“David Bloomfield has requested an audience.”
“Damn it.”
She muttered the curse, then gave instructions. “Tell him I have other matters today and to come another time.”
“But Your Majesty, he claims you promised him an audience three days after your coronation.”
“Ah, damn it!”
Richelle swore again, this time loud enough for the entire castle to hear. She wanted to tear at her hair, but the maids had oiled and tied it back so thoroughly that there was nothing to pull and no state in which to pull it. All she could do was growl under her breath.
“Fine. Summon him to the reception room. And tell him to wait about an hour.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“And inform Jenny to prepare for the audience.”
“Understood, Your Majesty. It shall be done.”
“Leave me.”
The servant bowed and withdrew. Richelle knew she ought to hurry if she was to meet David, yet her feet refused to move. Still, David Bloomfield was not someone she could afford to slight. He was of low birth, held no title, no honors, no lands, and was not even human. Yet the reason Richelle could not treat him carelessly was simple: he was Jihan, and like all Jihan he had amassed enormous wealth as a banker. Not only was he wealthy—he had invested that wealth in Richelle herself. Without his money, Richelle could never have bribed the Zylan nobles, the Holy See, or the Western Empire, nor could she have waged war against Derim and the League of Eight Nations. Now, holding such a massive claim against her, David would surely come to collect.
Richelle had no intention of defaulting, but she could not begin to imagine what the vicious Jihan banker might demand in interest on four hundred thousand gulden. In short, while Richelle was David’s sovereign as Queen of Zylan, David was, conversely, Richelle’s master as her creditor. An audience with such a man required proper formality. That fact irritated her all the more. Richelle had never cared for ceremony or protocol, but now her aversion was far more intense than before. The reason was simple.
She glanced sideways toward the west-wing balcony. There sat her nurse, embroidery frame in hand. Richelle exhaled and steeled her resolve. Striving not to show any sign of tension, she turned and walked toward the main building, hoping desperately that Virginia had not noticed her true intentions.