The Queen's Bastard (50 page)

She doesn’t turn away from the city view. Her hair, lush and dark and falling free, makes a cloak over her shoulders that he imagines wards off some of winter’s chill. If the circumstances were different, he might let himself bury his hands in it, inhale its scent, and be drowned in the pleasure of it all.

Instead, from the door, he says, “Why?” It’s not important, but he’s surprised at how badly he would like to know, surprised at how deeply these fragile, clever humans can touch him.

And she says, in a lighter voice than he’s heard her use before, “They offered me something you couldn’t.”

“Your life.” Oh, how he has fallen. He shouldn’t have said even so much. Rue, or perhaps some closer cousin to distress, curves Robert’s mouth, though he won’t let himself look down. That would be too much; too weak, and that he cannot, or will not, allow himself.

She turns then, amusement and wonder in her eyes, and he holds in a flinch, knowing far too well that he should not have spoken. It’s a long moment before she says, “That,” as if it doesn’t matter, and she’s right, for it doesn’t, and then lifts her left hand, where a heavy signet ring weights the third finger. “That, and this.”

There’s no guilt in the courtesan’s gaze, and Robert is quiet a while as he takes in what the ring means to him, and what it means to Ana. “A friend to the crown of Gallin,” he finally says, slowly. “What of Aulun, Ana?”

She shrugs, beautiful motion that ripples her hair and the light folds of her gown. “What of it? You’ve never really understood, Robert. I’m a courtesan, and a man came to me with an offer. Live like a duchess at Sandalia’s bidding, or die at his hands a whore. There’s no choice in that, my love. There’s no choice at all.”

Fog creeps over Robert’s thoughts, making them thick and dull and slow. He cannot recall—and his memory is excellent—that Ana has ever used those words before.
My love.
Too much has changed too quickly, and for the first time he wonders if Dmitri was right, and he, Robert, is losing control.

He is
clearly
losing control, for there’s the question of Javier, born to the power that Robert and Belinda and Dmitri all share, but born outside of Robert’s awareness, raised outside of certain schools of thought and indoctrination. Oh, yes, he
is
losing control, but that, that is a thing to be dealt with later. Tonight there is only one thing left to do, and she stands before him, waiting on his silence.

Which he breaks with a confession that is unlike him: voice grating and low, he says, “I do not understand.”

“Of course you do.” Ana has a deep voice, but tonight, still, it’s peculiarly light. Breathless, but not with ecstacy or laughter. More as though she dares not take too deep a breath, for fear it will cut her, and she does not want to spend her last hours in pain.

Then, suddenly, he
does
understand. Fog clears, his mind sharpening, and unexpected regret turns to a knife’s edge within him. “Which is it, then? That you wished not to die a whore, or wished not to die at his hands?”

“Oh,” Ana says, still lightly, “I wished neither, my love, but having had to choose, I chose not to die for him. It’s a small thing,” she says much more softly, and Robert suddenly realises they’re speaking Parnan; that they have been since he entered the room. There should be the sounds of the canals around them; there should be voices lifted in laughter and anger and life from the waterways. That’s how it should be, but it never will be, never again. “It’s a small thing,” Ana repeats, “but in the end, it seemed to be everything.”

Robert’s heart contracts. It’s only a few steps across the room, long hard steps, but only a few, and he takes them swiftly, catching the striking beauty in his arms. She cries out, a quiet shocked sound, and he covers her mouth with his just briefly, before kneeling with her.

Off-orange fabric settles around them slowly, darker now in places, wet and sticky. She’s silent, and he admires her for that even as she lifts fingertips to brush his lips, and then, strength spent, lets her hand fall again. He holds her, and at the last, breathes in the scent of her hair after all, and then rises, silently, to leave death behind.

J
AVIER
, P
RINCE OF
G
ALLIN
13 January 1588         
         Lutetia, the docks

He has gone to some measure to disguise himself, his ginger hair darkened not with dye but with soot and ashes: it is a more temporary guise than he might like, but grey and black catch the light more naturally than pure black dye, and it only needs to work for a few hours. He has no especial skill at changing his weight with clever clothes, but he has packed both coin and food into a roll at his belt, thickening his slender hips. There is padding in the shoulders of his cloak, making him bulkier, and he can, at the least, take the street vowels he learned so well from Eliza and apply them to his voice. He remembers streaks of dirt on Beatrice’s face as he drew her from the oubliette, and has mimicked them on his own, shadows changing the line of his jaw. It is not a perfect disguise, but it is enough to let him walk the docks late at night without notice.

There’s a ship already on the horizon, black shape against the stars as it sails against the wind. That wind carries the scent of the sea, the heavy unpleasantness of rotten fish and saltwater, and Javier is certain that there is no hint of perfume, carried from the horizon, on that breeze. He is certain, and yet. And yet.

The tide has long since turned, and Beatrice has not come to him.
Beatrice,
he thinks;
no: Belinda.
It’s an irrational conclusion, that Beatrice would have come to him but Belinda Primrose would not, and it is the only one he can bear.

Morning comes, and Beatrice does not. Head lowered, heart empty, Javier, prince of Gallin, climbs aboard a ship bound for Isidro in Essandia, there to seek his uncle’s counsel, and sails with the dawn.

to be continued in

The Pretender’s Crown

There are a handful of people from the RMFW who deserve particular and specific acknowledgments: Jessica Wulf, who ran the Colorado Gold writing contest for ten years, and during whose tenure I first placed in, then won, that contest; Monica Poole, who, at the beginning of my first Colorado Gold conference, gave me the most pointed and necessary critique my writing had ever received; Margie Lawson, whose incredible seminars helped me understand how to address Monica’s critiques; and Karen Duvall, whose friendship and enthusiasm I never would have known without the RMFW.

It’s an aphorism among writers that booksellers are your best friends, as they’re the ones who give individual recommendations and get customers to actually buy our books. Duane Wilkins of the University Bookstore in Seattle, Washington, whether he knew it or not, went one step further and helped lay down the path that sold this book to the publisher. Now
that’s
a friend!

Sarah Palmero and Stella Evans read and critiqued the first two hundred pages of
The Queen’s Bastard,
and their response gave me hope that I could write in this wholly different style. Ted, as usual, was serenely confident of my ability to do so; it’s good to have a husband who Believes.:) Not all of my usual suspects had time to finish the book, but Trent did, so my hat’s off to you, too.

I do believe I may have made my agent, Jennifer Jackson, forget she was working and stay up too late reading this manuscript. That’s pretty much the best compliment ever, and then on top of that she had insightful comments toward revision. Thanks, Jenn.

Finally, I’m still giddy over working with my editor, Betsy Mitchell. Betsy’s a rock star, and the opportunity to write for her is the dream of a lifetime.

         C. E. M
URPHY
lived for many years in Alaska before moving to Ireland. She is the author of the Walker Papers series and the Negotiator trilogy. Her hobbies include swimming, walking, traveling, and drawing.

By C. E. Murphy

The Queen’s Bastard

The Pretender’s Crown
(forthcoming)

T
HE
W
ALKER
P
APERS

Urban Shaman

Thunderbird Falls

Coyote Dreams

T
HE
N
EGOTIATOR
T
RILOGY

Heart of Stone

House of Cards

WITH
M
ERCEDES
L
ACKEY AND
T
ANITH
L
EE

Winter Moon

The Queen’s Bastard
is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

A Del Rey Books Trade Paperback Original

Copyright © 2008 by C. E. Murphy

All rights reserved.

Published in the United States by Del Rey Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

D
EL
R
EY
is a registered trademark and the Del Rey colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Murphy, C. E. (Catie E.)

The queen’s bastard / C. E. Murphy.

p. cm.

“A Del Rey Books trade paperback original”—T.p. verso.

1. Illegitimate children—Fiction. 2. Kings and rulers—Fiction. 3. Magic—Fiction. 3. Imaginary places—Fiction. I. Title.

PS3613.U726Q84 2008

813'.6—dc22                                                                                                            2007043848

www.delreybooks.com

eISBN: 978-0-345-50709-9

v3.0