Free The Pretender's Crown by C. E. Murphy Page B

path.”
    “What will you do, then?” Inexorable tone to his voice, the one that his advisers and the men of his court know not to argue with. Javier has literal power behind his voice, but Rodrigo has a half-century's practise, and most of those years he's been a king. “Will you slink to a monastery and shave a tonsure, spend your days on your knees and castigating yourself?” For all that it's what he'd have Javier do if he could, it's not what must be done. If it takes heartless derision to push Javier to the path he has to take, then Rodrigo will be cruel. Life is made of difficult choices, and as he told his nephew, being a king makes none of them easier. “Will you abandon your throne as you threatened to do? Show yourself a coward in God's eyes?”
    “I am not!” Javier's cry is as plaintive as a child's. “This isn't God's gift I own. How could God do other than approve if I walk away from it?”
    “Because you are His chosen son for the Gallic throne, aye, and for mine. Who would you pass it to, if you walked away, Javier? You have no sons, nor do I. Would you let Gallin be swept away by Aulun or Ruessland, left as nothing more than a memory of a place that once was?”
    “No.” The answer is dull now, no longer plaintive, no longer sullen. “I have no other answer.”
    “Then accept it.” Rodrigo comes to crouch before his nephew, putting his hands on the youth's shoulders; making himself small before the king of Gallin. His stomach churns as he does it, all the warrior in him cringing from the weakness of his stance, but he is not on a battlefield now; at least, not one of swords and archers. “Come with me. We'll go to one of the lower halls, and we'll seewhat can be done with this talent of yours. I'll guide you when I can, Javier. I have faith you'll stay on God's path and make use of this gift as He intends. Do not be afraid.”
    Javier nods slowly and both men come to their feet together, Rodrigo making a playful light gesture that Javier should precede him. Javier echoes it in response, and smiling, they walk shoulder to shoulder from Rodrigo's chambers.
    Shoulder to shoulder, both pretending not to be afraid.

B ELINDA P RIMROSE
    14 February 1588
†
Alunaer, capital city of Aulun
    She had no last name, not properly. Robert had always called her Primrose, for his imaginary sister who was supposedly Belinda's mother. But if she had taken her adopted father's name, she might have been Belinda Drake, who had been sent to a convent at age twelve, and who had never returned from it.
    Belinda Primrose wore those shackles now. For nearly a month she'd slept in a dull grey cell and said her devotions five times or more a day; had worn a scratchy woollen shift and knelt on cold stone, and had heard achingly little of the world beyond sturdy convent walls.
    The nuns were kind to their new ward, whom they'd been told had come from another convent. Belinda, when she spoke of her past, murmured obediently of a poor but pious abbey in the Aulunian west. She knew the names of her wimpled sisters, details of her mother superior's life, and could sketch a fair layout of the buildings if asked. Belinda had no doubt at all that such an abbey and such a woman and such sisters existed: she had no doubt, in fact, that a hazel-eyed, brown-eyed girl had played her role for ten years and more at that quiet western convent, and she had very little doubt as to what fate had greeted that woman when Belinda entered the convent in Alunaer.
    She tossed restlessly, sleep evading her more thoroughly tonightthan it had in weeks past. If she were not obliged by Lorraine's orders to remain hidden, she would climb over the walls and explore Alunaer, seeking out whatever trifle it was that disturbed her dreams.
    A month ought to have been more than enough time to reestablish control over her actions and behaviour, but instead curiosity plagued her, a wondering to what purpose Lorraine had had her ensconced amongst religious women;