Palace of Silver (The Nissera Chronicles #3) - Hannah West Page 0,3
They only knew that their bellies had ached with hunger and their loved ones had fallen ill with plague, while Uncle Mathis and Ambrosine bled them dry with tolls and taxes. The glowing sense of appreciation for my part in overthrowing the Moth King had faded. Now all my people saw was a beautiful woman in a palace with a magical jewel at her throat, a woman resembling the elder sister who had failed Volarre; the only physical trait that truly distinguished me from Ambrosine was the gash across my eye.
I stormed to the exit, barely remembering to acknowledge the mayors. “Hubert will work out the details when the dust settles,” I said over my shoulder. “My best wishes to you.”
A fretful Perennia waited with the maids in the corridor, gnawing her bottom lip.
“Go to your room and stay away from the windows,” I barked, sweeping past.
“What will you do?” she asked.
“Listen to them.”
“They’re not here to speak to you.”
I ignored her as I marched back to my bedchamber.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“To change.” I flung open the door before a maid could do it for me. I stalked to my wardrobe, tuning out the deafening shouts from the distant courtyard. “We have to show them that we’re not the vain little dolls they think we are.”
My fingertips brushed delicate beading, silk ribbons, ruffles, lace. I yanked out a spring green gown and plucked wildly at its fabric flower embellishments, maiming petals and severing threads. “Do I own a single gown without frills?”
“Don’t do that,” Perennia said like a governess scolding a child smearing paint on the walls. She confiscated the garment. “Just order some plain new ones.”
“That’s the problem! Always more things!” I shouted. “Ambrosine betrayed the kingdom to bloat our family’s wealth. I have to show all of Volarre that we are not like her.”
“It’s not about our wealth, Glisette, or finery, or beauty,” Perennia replied. She draped the unfortunate gown over the back of a chair. I saw myself reflected in her face: ivory skin, long golden hair, sea-glass eyes, high cheekbones. But she possessed a softness that the other three of us Lorenthi children did not. “They’re here to force you to give up your elicrin stone. They want you to become mortal. They no longer want all-powerful rulers. And who could blame them?”
“But I fought for them! I bled so they could live!”
As the words thrust out of me, violent memories returned, memories so horrifying that even my dreams didn’t dare touch them. I winced against the recollection of people trampling one another to escape from Darmeska when I used my elicrin power to freeze and break the gates open; the bodies of the city’s elders on display, feasts for carrion; the way the Moth King controlled the minds of Darmeskans from his tower, forcing them to terrorize their own people; the stinging cold of an arrow that should have killed me; and death’s icy claws trying to drag me away.
Perennia caught my hands in hers. The mellow glow from her rose elicrin stone preceded the familiar peace and relief that snuck in when her Solacer power stole whatever dark emotions thrashed inside me.
“You made great sacrifices,” she whispered. “But Ambrosine and Uncle Mathis hurt our people. Their mistakes shouldn’t be your burdens to bear, but they are because you are a Lorenthi too, and you wear the crown. Going out there in plain garb isn’t going to make a difference.”
For the first time, I wondered whether the Realm Alliance had made a mistake showing lenience to Ambrosine and Uncle Mathis. Both had been put on magical probation and consigned to manual labor, mostly sorting and loading foodstuff for the assistance programs. While Mathis sullenly followed orders, Ambrosine refused to work. She was determined to be a thorn in my side until, ostensibly, I let her return to her old way of life.
But as I’d been riffling bleary-eyed through Uncle Mathis’s documents days before my coronation, a solution presented itself. The king of Perispos had written to Uncle Mathis before the season of crises had begun, expressing an interest in marrying either Ambrosine or me. He had been widowed seven years earlier. Apparently, Uncle Mathis thought I would be suited to the task and had asked King Myron what bride price he was prepared to offer in exchange for my hand.
Upon reading the correspondences, I’d felt sour that I’d ever been treated like property, and then smug that I’d stripped Uncle Mathis of his