Rebel Song (22 page)

“Father, with Her Highness’ permission, I would like to escort her back,” Rogan tilted his mouth up just enough for Elyra to notice and no one else. Father Broden looked nervous at the idea, but turned to Elyra to seek approval.

“Rogan…” he started.

“She was telling me about the future plans for public works and I would like to learn more.” He caught a dramatic eye roll from Elyra.

“Well, that’s up to Her Highness,” Broden laughed with just a touch of hesitation. Elyra offered a faint smile.

“I am so flattered that you would offer. I don’t meet many who are so kind…or so
bold
,” she emphasized her last words.

Rogan extended a hand and bowed his head dramatically.

“My pleasure.”

“Please don’t allow young Rogan to get any fantastical ideas, Elyra. He’s a bit of a rogue, that one,” Father Broden said with a smile that told Rogan ‘Don’t even think about it.’

With Elyra’s hand on his arm, he led her back toward the huddle station where Brita, the media and hordes of others stood observing the scene. 

“Could your thespian antics be any more obvious?” She said through a plastic smile, barely moving her lips. Rogan just smiled.

“The people always love a good show.”

“You’re a little on the sweaty side.”

“Well, some of us work for a living,” he said. She snorted. “I like your outfit. Was hard to keep my hands off you out there.”

She gripped his arm tighter.

“Elwood, you are simply incorrigible.”

At the first walkway between the reserve tent and the temple building, Rogan swiftly and discreetly pulled her into a private sliver of alley. She gasped from surprise then nearly fell over giggling.

“I have been waiting for this all day,” Rogan pressed her against the wall of the temple. She squealed as he cupped both her delicate wrists against the wall, his body pressing against hers so closely he could feel the rise and fall of her shaky breath. She looked at him with yearning emerald eyes and her mouth agape, asking for tenderness. He obliged with a forceful kiss, letting his teeth linger on her bottom lip.

“How very bold of you,” she whispered once he had released her lips. “How very bold indeed.”

“That’s what we rebels are all about, you know. Storming castles and corrupting princesses.” He let her hands drop—just in time.              

They heard footsteps. Rogan instinctively backed away and they both shot their heads toward the square. A figure stood in the entryway of the alley, tall and slender and impeccably dressed.

“Elyra,” Markus’ polished voice said with a hint of uneasiness. Elyra’s eyes widened ever so slightly.

“Markus,” she chirped.

“I thought I saw you duck in here. What are you doing lurking in an alleyway?” He laughed nervously.

“I could ask the same of you.” She smoothed her hair.

“I was looking for you. The
Tribune
wanted to photograph all the nobles who attended today. I would think you would be one of them,” he laughed at his own banter.

She entertained his ill attempt at humor with a forced chuckle.

“Yes, I suppose that would be so. I’ll be there in just a moment.”

Markus took a few steps closer.

“And who is this?” He asked suspiciously, narrowing his eyes at Rogan.

Elyra side-glanced at him.

“This is Rogan. He is one of the few we can thank for this marvelous day happening. He worked with Father Broden to help organize it. Rogan, this is Markus Fallon.” She smiled like a politician. Markus offered an insincere tilt of the mouth but extended his hand.

“Good of you, boy,” Markus condescended.

Rogan thrust back his shoulders and mustered his height. He took Markus’ hand and squeezed it more firmly than was necessary, stifling a grin at how soft it was.

“There are so few man enough to do what needs to be done,
Sir,”
he said with emphasis.

“And what are you two doing hanging about in a dark alley? Up to no good?” Markus joked, but was obviously harboring some genuine suspicion.

“I was looking for the privy, if you must be so nosy,” Elyra said. “Rogan was my escort seeing as how I can’t be left to wander through dark and scary streets all alone.” She didn’t attempt to hide her sarcasm. Markus pursed his lips but forced a genial smile.

“Well, he’s not much of a guide is he? I don’t see a privy. And really Elyra, you can’t just use some public toilet.”

Elyra rolled her eyes.

“Yes, how very crude of her,” Rogan said wryly. “God knows what diseases the common people carry.”

Markus glared.

“I should escort Her Highness back—” Markus began.

Rogan held up a hand.

“No need. I have already offered, so you, my friend, are off the hook.” Rogan grinned with satisfaction but Markus twisted his mouth. Elyra eyed them both warily.

“Although I’m sure we would make
great
friends, friends we are not. But forgive me, I did not properly introduce myself. I am Markus Fallon of Batem and the Minister of Economics for Arelanda’s High Council. In the future, please don’t address me so informally.”

“Markus! For one thing, last I checked you were still an Intern Minister,” Elyra snapped. “And two, I am mortified by your rudeness. He has fed thousands of starving people today with his bare hands. What have you done today other than comb your hair and smile at the camera?” Elyra stood as tall as she was able and even at her reduced stature seemed to be looking down at him. .

“I…I’m sorry I offended you, Elyra,” Markus said, offering her a slight bow.

She placed her hands on her hips.

“Until you learn some manners, it’s ‘Your Highness’ to you,” she said smugly. Rogan suppressed a grin as she took his arm.

“Rogan, please escort me back to the huddle station. I have an interview to do.”

Rogan nodded and led her away, but not before giving Markus a mocking, overdramatic bow. Markus fumed as they walked away.

“So…Markus Fallon?” Rogan asked when they were far enough away. Elyra groaned.

“Intern Minister, my father’s former ward and the bane of my existence.”

“He seems to like you. Should I be worried?” Rogan asked.

“Hardly. Markus is a jackass. He’s a pompous sycophant obsessed with my father. Trying to prove to me how philanthropic he can be.”

“Sounds dangerous,” Rogan said, amused.

“Good thing I have you to protect me, then.”

CHAPTER 30

Elyra stepped into her father’s office and was met by the smell of sweet cinnamon and cloves. A cozy fire crackled in the corner, warding away the crisp morning chill. Henri sat on his plush mahogany chair behind the impressive royal desk with his thin-rimmed glasses nestled on the hump of his big nose, looking studious as he thumbed through documents. A great African boar hung above his desk—the one he had snagged on a safari they had taken when Elyra was nine. Its long, polished tusks protruded from the leathery mouth, which was gaped open as if still in shock to see the hunter’s rifle.

Elyra walked in and stood beside her father’s desk, waiting for his acknowledgment. He was the only one with whom she still stood on ceremony as his presence still weakened her resolve. She glanced around the room and was startled to see her mother sitting by the window reading from a tattered, upside-down book. Henri looked up from his work.

“Daughter,” the King said warmly. “Thank you for coming to me. Please sit.”

Queen Calliope stood from her seat and smiled as well, with a placid, empty face and distant pale eyes.

“Elyra, you are as beautiful as ever.” The Queen’s voice was airy and rhythmic, as though she were singing.

Elyra fidgeted uncomfortably and smiled back uncertainly at her mother’s uncharacteristic affection. She took her seat in the guest chair at her father’s desk and clasped her hands in her lap. Her father’s face was relaxed and welcoming, but she couldn’t help but feel a knot forming in her gut as she detected his insincerity. Calliope dragged a chair over to the desk as well. She was dressed in a long black dress that kissed the floor, with a low-cut bodice that exposed a concave chest and protruding collar bones. Her strawberry hair was twisted into a high-top knot with rogue strands tickling her pale cheeks.

“Should we have tea?” Henri asked in a friendly tone. Elyra’s mouth gaped but before she had answered he picked up the phone and pressed zero. “Zinna, a pot of Chai if you would, please.” He turned back to Elyra with a smile. “We have just received the most delicious blend from Bengal. I just love what those Easterners do with their spices.”

Elyra narrowed her eyes at him suspiciously. Henri Ballantyne did not take the time to talk about tea.

Zinna, the King’s lanky, nervous secretary, entered a few moments later with a tray holding a tall silver pot of chai, three silver tea cups and a plate with fresh ginger snap cookies, still radiating the spicy scent of being right from the oven.

“Thank you Zinna,” Elyra said taking her cup and a cookie. “So what do I owe the honor of this early morning chat?” She turned back to her father. 

“Elyra honey,” her mother cooed. “We don’t chat with you nearly enough. Is it so much to ask of you that—” Elyra threw up her hand.

“Mother, please. Do not patronize me. What do you both want?” She bit into a cookie with purpose, crumbs falling into her lap. Henri sighed.

“We have some delicate matters to discuss. Some matters of great importance to our country and its survival in this war.”

“Since when do you care about my political input?”

Henri ignored the question.

“This war is not going the way we need it to,” Henri continued.

“Then perhaps you should call it a day and bring everyone home in time for supper.” Henri glared at her.

“We have also had some grave news from the north,” Henri went on. “Rebel forces have seized our strongest northern fortress of San Mal.”

Elyra’s heart skipped.

“What? That fortress has never fallen!”

Henri nodded.

“Indeed. But our forces are spread too thin. Minister Brigg dispatched most of our resources to Suell. Things continue to grow dire, daughter,” Henri paused. “Have you spoken with Markus?”

The knot in Elyra’s stomach grew. She sucked in her breath and shrugged.

“Unfortunately, I speak with him daily.” She sipped her tea, which she had to admit, was exceptional.

Henri grimaced.

“And?” He pushed.

“And what?” She feigned ignorance.

“Has he discussed with you ways in which you might be able to help our efforts?”

Elyra tapped her nose with one finger and pretended to contemplate.

“Come to think of it, he did suggest a bake sale…”

“Damn it, Elyra! Do you have to make every conversation so painful?”

“Only the ones where you try to pretend you’re not trying to force me into marrying some arrogant jackass.”

“I’ll ask you not to speak of Markus like that. He’s a quality man,” Henri said, regaining his composure.

Elyra threw up her hands.

“Will you listen to yourself?
Quality man,
” she mimicked. “I’m your daughter, not one of your councilmen. Don’t talk to me like a politician. If you want to have a conversation with me, then talk to me like a human being.” She stood from her chair abruptly.

“When you act with the manners of one I will.”

“I’ve heard enough.”

“Will you please sit so we can discuss this as adults?” He snapped. “I said
sit!”
He seethed. It was not a suggestion. She sighed and obeyed.

“I thought being an adult was getting to make your own decisions,” she said.

“Being an adult, being a
queen
, is about making the right decisions. Decisions that are best for this country, not for yourself. And if you’re smart about it, those decisions wind up being best for you as well,” he said.

Elyra rolled her eyes.

“And you think selling me off to Markus Fallon is best for me?”

“Must you be so dramatic?”

She didn’t answer, only crossed her arms.

“Well if you would stop to think about it rationally, then yes, I do. A union with the Fallon family is strategic for both your country and your future as its leader. Face it dear, you’re not exactly winning political favor.”

Elyra glowered at him.

“Depends on whose favor you’re referring to,” she said almost to herself. “I’m not ready to even think about getting married. I want to travel. I want to study political science and the history of the great dynasties of Arelanda.”

Henri shot her an annoyed glare.

“Then you should. By all means, to be a great leader, you need to be educated. Need to be cultured. And you can do all of those things with an engagement contract signed and sealed.”

Elyra felt her blood boil and her face reddened. The very word
contract
grated her nerves.

“Arelanda needs this, darling,” her mother cooed, not even looking at Elyra directly, but at her husband as if to insure she was saying the right thing.

“I don’t love him,” Elyra protested again. “Hell, I don’t even like him!”

“Language,” Calliope scorned. “I didn’t love your father when I first came here. I didn’t even know him,” the Queen went on.

“Yes, and looked how well it worked out for you both,” Elyra snapped. She could see the anger flare in her father’s eyes.

“Look child, I don’t know what kind of fantasies you have in your head. But the bottom line is that we are in the midst of war and on the brink of a revolution. We need Hildon’s forces and finances.”

“How romantic.”

Henri’s face turned a frightening shade of scarlet.

“The power, the pretty dresses, those diamonds in your hair, the comforts you are so accustomed to—do you think that it doesn’t come with a price?” Henri growled. “We are not the same as common people. We don’t get the same choices.”

“You act as though Markus Fallon is the only eligible high-born man left in the world. Surely there other deep pockets to fund your war. For Sants’ sake, he’s practically family!”

“Bring me a prospect with equal financial and strategic gain and it will have my blessing. Until then, it’s about time you start thinking about the duty you have to this country. About the sacrifice that we all must make.” The King’s mouth was twisted into a hideous snarl.

Elyra used every effort to keep her anger from erupting. She knew that trying to negotiate reason in this situation was going to get her nowhere. Her parents’ old-fashioned beliefs were too deeply ingrained. They had done what needed to be done for the good of the nation and they would never accept that Elyra didn’t have it in her to willingly do the same—her fate had been sealed the moment she was brought into the world. Her family tree went deep into the depths of the royal history of the West.
Did she really think Rogan could ever even hold on to a willowy branch of it?
She would need her father’s signature for any marriage. Sure, by law she could make a match with whomever she wanted, but it would mean she forfeited all her titles, inheritance and birthright.
Wouldn’t Pantone just love that?

“I won’t be part of your political strategy,” she said calmly. “I’m sorry, but I won’t. You’ll have to fight this war some other way.” She stood, trying to remain poised, and gently bowed her head.

“Elyra, you sit back down!” the King growled. “We are not finished here.”

Elyra stared her father down defiantly.

“I am very much finished.” She slammed the door on her way out.