The Queen's Bastard

JAVIER, PRINCE OF GALLIN

9 November 1587 Lutetia “She isn’t your usual type, Javier.” Sandalia is watching her son, making him uncomfortable, though he doesn’t dare let that show. He left Beatrice sleeping off the aftermath of sex in his bedchambers hours ago, and he has been thinking, pacing, avoiding everyone ever since.

Even now he paces the confines of Sandalia’s chambers, reaching for wine, nibbling on sweetmeats. He isn’t hungry, but better to let his mother believe that’s the problem than delve deeper. “She’s pretty enough,” Sandalia admits, “but you’ve always had an eye for the slender blondes.” Amusement suffuses her words. He thinks of her as a happy woman, he realises. She is many things, of course-focused, intent, a queen-but in the end, to Javier, she is his mother, and she is happy. “Deliberately avoiding comparisons to your mother, I imagine. What draws you to her?”

Javier imagines, briefly, telling the truth. Daring to explain, as he has never dared, the witchpower that he thought was his burden alone. Daring to pool light in his palms and explain that his will is its source.

As always, since childhood, caution stays him. He believes, must believe, that his mother wouldn’t condemn him as a monster, but while Sandalia is earthier than her brother Rodrigo, she’s also a true Ecumenic queen, and he can’t imagine making her believe that his abilities aren’t the devil’s tricks.

Especially when he doesn’t believe it himself.

It’s easier, now that he has Beatrice. Now that he knows he’s not the only one gifted, or cursed, with the witchpower. He’s continuously surprised that a woman should share his powers, but better a woman than a man. Beatrice’s sex gives him an easy excuse to spend time with her. Should he have discovered another man with such skills, the hours they’d spend together training would have all of Echon snickering in their sleeves at Sandalia’s only heir. It’s not a path Javier has any interest in taking, all the more so given how desire helps to focus the witchpower for use.

“She’s useful, Mother” is what he allows himself to say. It’s all he can allow himself to say, even if he were to leave the question of witchpower itself behind. The pain that sears through him at the thought of losing Beatrice takes his breath, and to confess to more than her use would have Sandalia remove her from his life permanently. “The night Marius brought her to meet us-”

“You’re the only son of a royal house I know who means more than one person when he says us,” Sandalia interrupts. Javier smiles because she expects him to and waits a moment to see if she’s going to follow that familiar path of scolding before he goes on.

“That night she named me the true heir to Aulun,” he says when it’s clear he’s been given a reprieve from that particular lecture. “Even a brunette catches my attention that way.”

“Did you stop to think that might be what she wanted?”

“Mother,” he says impatiently, “I’m the prince of Gallin. I think the last time I met a woman who didn’t want to catch my attention she was ten and trying to steal pears from our gardens. Of course I did. But even if she was, if she’s bold enough to do it that way, then she may be reckless enough to help-” He breaks off, unwilling to speak specific terms, even in a room where no one is supposed to be spying. “Reckless enough to help,” he repeats, and makes it a finished sentence.

Sandalia, less paranoid or more confident than he, laughs. “Help? What would you have her do, Javier? Wrangle an introduction to the Aulunian court and slip poison into Lorraine’s tea?”

Javier exhales. “I had a different plan.” This is a moment of danger, one he barely recognizes himself for risking. It borders on sentiment, a weakness Javier never thought himself to share, with the exceptions of his childhood friends. For those three he will do anything. To find himself about to propose what he intends to, in order to retain contact with the only other witchbreed being he’s ever found-and in order to threaten the Aulunian throne, he reminds himself-speaks of something his mother might see as vulnerability.

It is never wise to show weakness to royalty.

Sandalia’s eyebrows quirk, invitation to continue. Javier puts down his wineglass and picks it up again, cursing himself for the tell even as he does so. “This is not,” he begins, “intended as a long-term arrangement.” He has to say that first, or she’ll never listen. He has to say it first, to establish to himself that it’s true. Interest and amusement light Sandalia’s eyes at that opening foray. She gestures to the wine, and he pours her a cup, brings it to her grateful for the physical distraction. “Lanyarch is without a king since Charles’s death,” he says as he does so. “Either out of respect for you or fear of Lorraine, no one has come forth to put on a pretender’s crown since you fled the country.”

“Let’s pretend respect,” Sandalia says drily. “I know this, Javier.”

“Lanyarch is still Aulun’s greatest threat as an Ecumenic neighbor to the north, contentious and chafing under Reformation rule. But the threads that tie us there are slender, Mother. You’re a widow, not a daughter of any Lanyarchan nobility, and you have no children by Charles.” He smiles suddenly, bright and disarming. “Unless you’ve hidden one all these years?”

“I’m beginning to consider claiming that,” Sandalia says, though she’s smiling. “If you don’t reach your point.”

Javier is avoiding doing just that, and knows it. He takes a sip of wine-a small sip, because he wants a large one-and says, “The Lady Irvine is Lanyarchan nobility, however minor.”

Sandalia takes it where he wants her to, dark eyes widening momentarily. “You would propose marrying her to strengthen your claim to the Lanyarchan throne? Javier-”

“I would propose engaging myself to her to see if fear can shake Lorraine Walter out of her royal seat,” Javier corrects. “If we can push her to invasion or war, Mother, then Lanyarch can call on Cordula for help. We all only seek an excuse.” He falls silent a moment, caught by childhood schoolings, and beneath his breath murmurs, “How many centuries is it since Aulun held Gallin’s throne in any meaningful way, or since Gallin has reigned with true power over Aulun? Two? More? And still we rattle back and forth at one another like angry children, each of us certain the other has stolen our toys. Hatred runs old and deep, the reasons long forgot.”

His mother’s gaze goes cool. “It’s only a lifetime since Aulun splintered from the Church, and in that time her Reformation has spread to Echon’s northern states. Our reasons are fresh, Javier, and born of a hope to see all the world safe in the arms of Christ, not led astray by weakness of flesh and mind. If you can’t remember that now, how can I trust you with a war for a throne?”

Not so very long ago, Javier realises, that lecture would have sent his head ducking down and apologies to his lips. Now he lifts his eyes to Sandalia’s with neither fear nor regret, and knows with certainty and a small shock of joy that Beatrice has helped him come this far. “The Church is an excuse, Mother, and if you can’t admit it to yourself, at least I can. The wherefores of this plot run far deeper than Lorraine’s father and his cuckholding ways. But let it be,” he adds, smoothing away the disagreement with a gesture. “What matters is that if an engagement to Irvine can shake the Red Queen’s grasp on Aulun, her reign may fall beneath the combined might of Gallin’s army and Essandia’s navy.”

Sandalia is silent for long moments before she nods and admits, “Clever. It’s a clever thought. But how much of it is born of sentiment, Javier?”

He will not allow himself a guilty wince. Instead he shrugs, loose and casual, hoping the cost of that doesn’t show. “Some. I like her. But she’s not meant to be a queen, Mother, and I know that. I’ll need to do better than her to hold even Gallin’s throne, much less Aulun’s.”

“There’s Irina’s daughter,” Sandalia says thoughtfully. Javier’s eyebrows wrinkle until his head hurts.

“She’s fourteen.”

“As was I the first time I was wed,” Sandalia reminds him acerbically. “Besides, if you’re to do this she’ll be more than old enough by the time you’re able to break with Irvine and still hold two thrones.” To his astonishment, he realises she’s genuinely considering his proposal, and he wonders if it’s not as rash as he first conceived. “For God’s sake, Javier, whatever you do, don’t get her pregnant.”

“Ivanova?” he asks lightly. “I’m overwhelmed by your belief in my manhood, Mother, but I’m afraid it won’t reach all the way to Khazar by itself.”

Sandalia gives him a sharp look that makes the jape worthwhile. “Irvine no more wants a pregnancy than I do. Don’t worry, Mother.” An impulse hits him, though: what would their child be like? Heir to witchpower from both parents, trained in it since birth? Echon might never have imagined such power in such a ruler.

Sandalia interrupts his musings with a snort that belies her delicate prettiness. “The only reason a woman bedding a prince hopes to not become pregnant is if she fears for her bastard’s life when a legitimate heir comes along. Ask her to marry you and she’ll lose that concern, Javier, so for God’s sake, watch yourself. Make sure she watches herself.”

He finds himself holding his breath, as if he’s a child again. “Does that mean you approve?”

“It has merit,” Sandalia allows. “It would have more if your Beatrice were of more significant rank, but the tie to Lanyarch…” Her expression turns sour, a sure indicator that she wishes she’d thought of the ploy herself. “It’s well thought out. Making Lorraine nervous is an entertaining way to pass the winter, if nothing else.”

“And come spring,” Javier says lowly. Sandalia nods, slow and thoughtful.

“Come spring,” she agrees. “Come spring.”