Portia would never ask that question out loud, but it lingered in her thoughts when the motor carriage finally drove into the military garrison within Istal’s walls and saw who waited for them in the forecourt. She remembered the Urovan from the debutante ball back in Amari last year and, later, when Terilyn had overseen their transfer from Ashion to Daijal. Wearing a long brown skirt and a white short-sleeved blouse, with her black hair pulled back in a queue, her outfit was quite plain, not indicative of a noble at all.
Terilyn’s quiet demeanor hid sharp eyes and an even sharper mind. Ever Eimarille’s companion and trusted lady-in-waiting, she was not above murdering for her queen, as Portia well knew. She couldn’t quite hide the flinch when Terilyn’s steady, brown-eyed gaze landed on her as she exited the motor carriage.
“This won’t do,” Terilyn said, taking their measure. “Remove their shackles.”
The guards who had come with them obeyed the order without argument. It wasn’t as if Portia or Emmitt had any weapons or magic at their disposal. With her hands free, Portia reached for Emmitt and found him reaching back. Their fingers tangled together tightly, his palm rough against hers, but it felt so good to hold on.
Terilyn circled them once before gesturing sharply. “You will follow me.”
The soldiers didn’t join them, and no one tried to separate them. Portia took advantage of that tiny bit of freedom to press close to her husband. Emmitt wrapped his arm tight around her waist, his fingers digging into her hip with bruising desperation.
Terilyn led them to a washroom with attendants who looked more suited to being at court than a garrison. She and Emmitt were stripped of their prison clothes and scrubbed down while they stood in the center of the tiled space. Portia’s cheeks burned with shame at being on display in such a manner, but she didn’t complain. At least the water was warm enough, but Portia was still chilled by the time she was handed a towel and told to dry off. She didn’t dally, thankful that she’d been able to wash off the accumulated grime. Her daily ablutions in the POW camp were little more than sluicing a tiny amount of water over her hands and face.
Once they were dry, the attendants dressed them in clothes Portia knew they wouldn’t get to keep. The fabric was too fine, the style too new, to be anything but a façade for political purposes.
That’s all they were now—no longer cogs but political pawns.
Terilyn nodded her approval at their cleaned-up state before stepping out of the room. “This way.”
Portia and Emmitt followed after her, escape a distant dream. Terilyn led them deeper into the garrison to a room that had been rearranged to allow a military photographer to set up his camera stand. The painting that once hung from a white-painted wall now leaned against the back of a pushed-aside sofa. In its place hung the Daijal flag. Portia and Emmitt were made to sit and stand, always facing the camera with grim expressions on their faces as the bulbs popped and flashed throughout the process. Whatever propaganda the photographs would be used for, Portia hoped Caris knew they were unwilling participants in the designs.
“I’ll have them ready for the queen by tomorrow morning,” the man said with a stiff nod in Terilyn’s direction.
“See that you do. We depart Istal at noon tomorrow,” Terilyn said.
With the appointment finished, Terilyn led them once more through the garrison on a route Portia didn’t bother to keep track of. Eventually, Terilyn escorted them into a library where Queen Eimarille Rourke waited. Portia tried to still her pounding heart as Eimarille looked at them over the tea tray situated on the low table.
Eimarille was dressed in a rich maroon gown with sheer gold voile layered over the skirt. Her bodice had delicate gold thread embroidered in a repeating Viper constellation pattern along the collar, drawing attention to the layered strands of gold and pearl necklaces. She wore no crown, only a tiara with intricate floral filigree done in gold, pearl, and diamonds.
As beautiful as she looked, Portia found no warmth in Eimarille’s gaze. But even as she stared, she could see bits of Caris in Eimarille’s face, the resemblance there only in the physical, for her daughter would never be so cruel.
“Have you forgotten your manners?” Terilyn asked with an amused lilt to her voice.
Belatedly, Portia sketched a curtsy while Emmitt bowed. Neither one of them spoke, choosing silence over the political pitfalls that came with words these days. Eimarille’s lips quirked into a smile as she gestured at the sofa across from hers. “Baron and Baroness Dhemlan, do take a seat. I thought it time the three of us finally had a conversation.”
When they’d been imprisoned under house arrest in Amari after the riot last summer, Eimarille had not summoned them before her. They’d been held under false pretenses, Portia had argued, but it made no difference at the time. Portia and Emmitt might have been Ashionen citizens, not subject to Daijalan law, but the courts saw differently. Their detainment had been orchestrated by the very woman who now offered them a spread of tea and food too rich for their stomachs after months of poor rations.
Emmitt squeezed Portia’s hand before letting go and ushering her to a seat. They sat, so close their thighs touched, and Portia clasped her hands together over her lap. Terilyn gracefully sat next to Eimarille and set about pouring tea for everyone. Two pots were available, one with the pale gold flowering tea favored by Daijal and another of the bitter black favored by some provinces in Ashion. There was cream and sweetener in the form of sugar, honey, and jam, along with elegantly made cakes and tea sandwiches.
Terilyn passed out teacups to everyone, and Portia had to force herself to reach for hers, opting not to add anything to it. She wondered, idly, if it was poisoned in some way. Eimarille had stolen war machine designs from Solaria; she wouldn’t put it past the other woman to borrow the Houses of Solaria’s habits of murdering each other by way of poison in order to claim power.
“Not to your liking?” Eimarille asked, the kindness in her tone a lie.
“It’s been quite some time since I’ve had tea,” Portia demurred. She braced herself for a careful sip, the hot beverage tasting how she remembered.
“I am aware.”
Portia said nothing to that, knowing better than to lay the blame for their current predicament at the feet of the woman who quite literally controlled their lives. Her sip taken, Portia set the teacup on the table, steeling herself to meet Eimarille’s gaze. The younger woman’s attention was a heavy thing, leaving Portia’s chest tight as she wondered how to dance like a puppet to ensure their road continued.
“You must understand I did not wish for things to turn out this way, but your daughter gave me no recourse,” Eimarille said after a moment. Portia bit her lip, swallowing her words. Emmitt stayed silent as well. Their reticence to speak seemed to amuse Eimarille. “No defense for your daughter?”
“Would it do us any good, Your Majesty?” Emmitt asked carefully.
Eimarille’s mouth quirked up at the corners, but there was no humor to be found in her eyes. “No, it wouldn’t. It is good that you understand that.”
The taste of the tea soured on Portia’s tongue. “We understand that we are at your mercy.”
“My mercy can be kind.” Eimarille set her teacup down on the table, sharing an unreadable glance with Terilyn. “Your memories show no recollection of how Caris came to you.”
