“We would still have some two hundred thousand subjects facing hunger through the winter months. The riots in Caermont are but a preview if we cannot secure additional sources.”
So, they knew of the protests? My gaze shifted to Quinn. He was propped on his fist with a stern look in his eyes, almost missing my nonverbal exchange. When he did take notice, he merely blinked in acknowledgement of the shared memory. “Fifteen percent,” he whispered. “That’s how much of the population will starve.”
The queen’s frown deepened. She rapped her fingers on the table, weighing solutions. Then she shifted to Lord Merin.
“I’ve reconsidered my proposal,” she said, to his alarm. “We shall refit and reallocate ships from our naval fleet and send them north. Your people must increase their catch, preserve the fish, and distribute it inland. In addition, take your unhoused eighty and send them south to Pontarena… We shall accelerate the canal’s construction, and your working men can assist in the effort in exchange for lodgings for their families. I am sure Lord Marius will be accommodating, as it will mean an increase in revenue for him and all of Antier.”
“Y-yes, Your Majesty.” Lord Merin hesitated, and for good reason: the queen had just asked him to uproot eighty proud northerners to an entirely different biome, a culture completely unlike their own. “Very good.”
“In the meantime, we must plant root vegetables with whatever land shall carry it. An aggressive planting campaign could yield food by late spring,” Queen Adelaide continued. Then her gaze darkened. “And all noble houses shall open their private stores to rationing. Let no lord feast while his people starve.”
My eyes widened. Murmurs passed throughout the room at the move, implying its political danger, but no one dared to question the final word of the queen. Not here.
“Let us move on from this dreary business,” said the queen, reclining in her seat and massaging her temples. “Prince Nicolas?”
Nicolas cleared his throat. “Lord Dalton of Twinbridge.”
Another stranger stood, bowing low to the queen. Unlike Lord Merin, he was very young for a lord, perhaps only recently inheriting the title. He made his lengthy introduction, speeding through the formalities to quickly reach the point of his presence: a strange illness sweeping over the city, particularly in the poorer districts.
It started with a fever, one that escalated with every passing day. The sick became confused and delirious, constipated andthen prone to bloody flux. They became so weak that they could hardly leave their homes, their stomachs distended. Many had died already, and autopsy reports showed perforations in their intestinal tracts.
I scratched my head. The queen had no immediate reply for the young lord, leaving it to the table for further deliberation. The royal physician was summoned to give his opinion, and it was his determination that the poorer districts should be sectioned-off from the rest of the city until whatever the ailment was had run its course. With one in four of the infected succumbing to the disease, I shuddered at the notion, shaking my head. My leg bounced beneath me while I deliberated.
Nicolas leaned closer, noticing my agitation. “What troubles you?”
My thoughts raced as I connected the symptoms to something Mother had described many years ago: a summer sickness that had swept through a riverside village near the Greater Arbordeen. The pattern was unmistakable: poor districts, access to a river, intestinal distress, all following a flood from the north.
I took Nicolas’ hand beneath the table, my nails digging into his skin with urgency.
“The water,” I whispered, so quiet that only he could hear. “The poor drink from the rivers. The wealthy drink wine and ale. The sickness is in the water.”
Nicolas’s jaw hung open. I put my hand on his thigh and he cleared his throat, addressing the assembly. “Lord Dalton, tell me: do the afflicted districts draw their water from the two rivers that surround Twinbridge?”
Lord Dalton looked equally baffled. “Yes, Your Highness.”
“And the wealthier quarters?”
Now the lord shifted uncomfortably. “They have private wells, Your Highness, though most prefer to drink wine.”
Nicolas squeezed my hand. “Quarantine will not halt this disease. The sickness travels in the water itself. We must provide an alternative source for the people to drink.”
The royal physician scoffed. “Your Highness, disease spreads through miasma and ill humors—”
“Tell me, physician,” Queen Adelaide interrupted, her fascinated gaze moving between her son and me, “in your learned opinion,what harm could come from providing clean well water and ale to the suffering?”
The physician’s mouth opened and closed like a trout. “None, Your Majesty, but the expense—”
“Will be far less than losing a quarter of Twinbridge’s workforce.” The queen tapped her ring. “Lord Dalton, have every public well in the affected districts filled and sealed. Establish water distribution from the wells. The crown will cover the cost.”
As Lord Dalton stammered his gratitude and withdrew, Nicolas’ thumb traced small circles against my palm beneath the table, a silent acknowledgment of my triumph.
Fortunately for all of Antier, the rest of the matters were comparably tame. Within an hour, the council concluded its business and the queen took her leave, gesturing for Nicolas and me to accompany her.
We followed her through the corridors to a private salon, Dierdre materializing to trail behind us. Once inside, the queen’s lady-in-waiting secured the heavy doors with practiced efficiency, ensuring our privacy.
“And now you know the circlet atop your head represents more than pageantry,” Queen Adelaide said, exhaustedly plopping onto a sofa with an unladylike thud. “We have a duty to Antier. You excelled in all matters today, Princess Alana; you knew when to speak, and when to listen…unlike my son, whose focus was obviously divided throughout the meeting.”
Nicolas stiffened.
