unseen woman’s voice harangued her. I felt the yearning in the child—a yearning for greatness, for an opportunity for glory beyond what her meager life afforded her.
Lianne turned away. “Don’t do that!”
“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “Truly, my lady! I cannot help it. It comes upon me unbidden.”
When she glanced back at me, unshed tears glittered in her eyes, and I understood that despite her penitence, Lianne Tremaine would always hunger, always yearn. And that she would always hate me a little bit for having lived through events she longed to have witnessed.
If she had, I thought, she would feel differently.
It was one thing to hear tell of the weapons of Divine Thunder. It was another thing to have ridden across that battlefield, to see our brave, good-hearted comrade Tortoise jouncing in the saddle, one hand clinging to the pommel, the other clutching his reins, his face terrified but determined as he rode to the aid of the dragon-maddened princess.
To hear the weapons cough and boom, to feel the acrid wind pass overhead…
To see the smoking crater where Tortoise had been…
What Lianne saw in my face, I could not say. “I don’t—” She broke off her thought, clearing her throat. “You should go, Moirin. We’ve work to do, you and I. Best we get to it. I’ve poems to write—better poems, gods willing. And you’ve much to do in a month’s time.”
I bowed in the Ch’in manner, hand over fist. “Aye, my lady. I’m sorry.”
She scowled at me. “For what?”
I didn’t answer.
“Oh, go!” Lianne’s scowl deepened. “Go! Don’t stand there being all polite and obsequious and… and gods-sodding understanding. I can’t bear it. Go!” She flapped one hand at me. “Go, go! Take my counsel and put it to use. We’ll meet again later as matters progress.”
I bowed again, and made to take my leave.
“Moirin?” Her voice called me back. I paused and turned, seeing a rare vulnerability in her expression. “Thank you.”
I inclined my head. “And you.”
FOURTEEN
That afternoon, I met alone with Rogier Courcel, the Duc de Barthelme and Royal Minister of the realm.
I had requested an audience thinking it might be some days before he had time to grant it; but to my surprise, the royal steward ushered me into his presence in his study straightaway.
My father was not there. I wished he was.
“Moirin.” The Duc tapped his pen on his desk. “I’m pleased you’ve come. As I said, I wanted to speak to you regarding the Vralian matter. Please, sit.”
I sat, sinking into one of the padded leather chairs opposite his desk, tracing the rivets in the armrests with my fingertips.
“So?” He arched his strongly etched Courcel brows. “Do I understand that you contend that Vralia has committed an act of aggression against Terre d’Ange?”
I shook my head. “Not exactly, my lord.”
He looked curious. “What, then? I am unclear on the details.”
I told the tale in brief. How I had been betrayed by the Great Khan Naram, whose daughter Bao had wed, and been delivered in chains to Pyotr Rostov, the Patriarch of Riva. How the Patriarch represented an extreme faction of a schism within the Church of Yeshua in Vralia, and how he fervently believed that a holy war against the licentious D’Angelines and all they represented, as well as rooting out the blasphemous bear-witches of the Maghuin Dhonn, would lead to the return of Yeshua ben Yosef. How I had escaped with the aid of Rostov’s sister and nephew.
The Royal Minister listened, sketching occasional notes. It reminded me uncomfortably of being forced to confess my sins to the Patriarch, and I tried not to squirm in my seat. “You’re right,” he said when I had finished. “We cannot exactly hold Vralia to account for one man’s actions. Still, it is troubling.”
I nodded. “Pyotr Rostov was acting in his capacity as the spiritual leader of Riva. But he had the support of the Duke of Vralsturm, who was acting in a political capacity. When the Patriarch ordered me stoned to death, I begged him to aid me as a descendant of House Courcel. He refused.”
He tapped his pen again. “I will inquire into the matter.”
“Oh… well, you should probably know that I tried to kill the Patriarch,” I said reluctantly.
“What?” Rogier Courcel’s face froze in shock.
“He and the Duke of Vralsturm and his men caught up with Aleksei and me in the city of Udinsk, my lord,” I said. “If I hadn’t resisted, they would have stoned us to death.” Remembering the future of endless war and