Page 27 of Jailer to the Death God
Venniroth has a survivor’s white hair, a short white beard, and a face that must have been beautiful once and is still coarsely, heavily handsome. He’s broad-chested, and his slight paunch has disappeared over the past couple of months as our kingdom began to suffer deprivation. His thick fingers are weighted with flashy rings, but the edge of his right sleeve is frayed, probably from rubbing against his writing desk.
Shit, I haven’t been listening to the last few sentences. I nod slightly, trying to look attentive.
“Please don’t treat this as some sort of attack, Your Highness,” says Lord Venniroth. “I sympathize with you for being forced into a role which you yourself claim to have never wanted.”
I frown. “I never said—”
“Forgive me, Princess, but my son assures me you did say such things, more than once.”
Shit.
When Otin was younger and much less obnoxious, he used to hang out with Rose, Leilani, and me between classes. We were all in the same exclusive school for noble children—which no doubt contributed to the haughty mentality of most of our classmates. I used to think I was the exception, but now and then I have caught myself falling prey to the same mode of thinking—that I’m somehow loftier, more intelligent, or more capable because of my birth.
Since the plague, and coming face-to-face with my own incompetence, I’ve had far fewer of those thoughts.
But in our schooldays I did occasionally voice my fervent joy that I was born second, that Aspen was heir, and that I most likely wouldn’t ever wear the crown. I didn’t want it.
I still don’t. But it’s my responsibility. My birthright. Aspen’s last plea was for me to do better than he did. I’ve already failed in that, but I won’t stop trying, and no power-hungry councilman is going to dislodge me from my place.
“What I thought during my teenage years is far different from what I believe now,” I say coolly. “And don’t think I haven’t noticed your lack of decorum, Lord Venniroth. It’s ‘Your Majesty,’ not ‘Your Highness.’ And it’s Queen, not Princess.”
“Apologies,” he says instantly, with an obsequious little head tilt. “Old habits. A mere slip of the tongue. I haven’t been sleeping well—I’ve been so concerned for the wellbeing of the kingdom.”
“As have I. Yet I manage to remember the correct honorifics for my council members.”
There’s a tiny flash of anger in his eyes. His lips tighten briefly before he says, “Let me speak plainly, Your Majesty. The other council members and I have discussed the matter, and we believe it would be in the best interest of the people if you were to take a husband, someone to help you carry the weight of the crown. There are a number of eligible men of noble birth who would be glad to assist in this matter. You may have heard that my wife passed only last week—not of the plague, but because of her failing heart. Mired in grief as I am, I would be willing to put aside that sorrow and partner with you in the work of healing the kingdom.”
His words are honey-smooth, sticky, and cloying. I’m caught in them for a moment, startled beyond speech.
I scan the faces around the table, expecting to find shock at Lord Venniroth’s blatant proposal. But instead I find averted eyes, or bland, unsurprised expressions, or nods of support for him.
They’ve discussed this without me. Venniroth has spread his virulent influence through the Council, and I’m losing their trust.
I’m losing everything.
When will Fate finally deem that I’ve lost enough?
“You need not decide at once,” says one of the other lords. “Take a week, Your Majesty, to think it over, and to court some of the potential candidates. If, at the end of the week, you haven’t found someone else equally suitable, the Council will vote to mandate your marriage to Lord Venniroth.”
“You can’t do that,” I gasp.
“We can.” Lord Venniroth’s tone is gentle, with the barest tinge of triumph, “if we pass a vote of ‘no confidence’ in the Queen.”
He’s right. In our kingdom, the authority belongs to the Crown, but the Crown is checked and balanced by the Council. And in certain cases, the Council may overrule the Crown. There is precedent for a vote of ‘no confidence.’ One of my ancestors went half-mad and began picking fights with the few overseas allies we had, ordering his galleons to attack their ships, inciting war. Thankfully the Council voted him off the throne before a full-scale war broke out, and his brother took over. But the mad king’s actions permanently damaged our relationships with those nations. We became even more isolated afterward.
“I would hate to see you abdicate the throne,” Lord Venniroth says softly. “But if you are too weary and overwhelmed to see the wisdom of having a partner by your side, then perhaps you are not fit to rule at all.”
This is outright defiance. He’s pushing me into a corner, effectively threatening me, yet doing it under the guise of concern for the people. It’s despicable, and brilliant.
My position is tenuous at best. I can’t overreact in this moment, or I will confirm the suspicion Venniroth has planted in my Council’s minds—that I’m not fit to be Queen.
I must move carefully.
“I will consider your suggestions,” I tell the Council. “Perhaps I do need more help. But a week seems too brief a time in which to make such a permanent decision. I’m sure you all sympathize with my desire to have not only political support, but love, when I choose a husband.”
“Understandable, for a girl such as yourself,” says the Duchess of Louge, a dour-faced older woman, one of Venniroth’s closest allies. “But in times like these, we must all put our personal desires aside. People are dying. Surely your desire for romance is not more important than the lives of your subjects.”
She’s turning my simple request into a matter of childish selfishness.
