“Your countrymen will be those who shoulder the cost and the burden,” Ansel says, leaning forward. “During the last war with Cellaria, I hadn’t been born yet, but I heard stories from my parents—they said their taxes went up significantly. Some months they even doubled.”
“Surely you aren’t implying that there is a price you are unwilling to pay for our country…,” Lord Covier begins. Then he frowns. “Who are you?”
Leopold makes quick, distracted introductions, and Lord Covier and Lord Verning exchange contemptuous glances.
“Your Majesty—Temarin can’t afford a war,” Ansel says again. “The people are already suffering.”
Leopold frowns. “How much money does a war cost?” he asks, glancing around the table.
“Well…er…that’s a complicated question,” Lord Verning says, clearing his throat.
“Then let’s uncomplicate it,” Leopold says. “Tell me the average cost per month of the last war with Cellaria, as well as a detailed look at where the money to pay for it came from. How much from the treasury, how much from taxes, how much from other sources.”
Lord Verning blinks. “I don’t have that information on me, Your Majesty.”
“Then go find it,” Leopold says, grumbling the words more than speaking them as he rakes a hand through his hair. Lord Verning hesitates for a few seconds before pushing back from the table and hurrying from the room, casting a bewildered glance back at Leopold over his shoulder.
“And where is the Cellarian ambassador?” Leopold continues. “I want a guard put on him at all times.”
“You wish to make Lord Fiorelli a prisoner?” Lord Covier asks, glancing at Eugenia uncertainly.
“Lord Fiorelli may prove to be the only bargaining chip we have, and I’m not about to let him slip back to Cellaria when he hears about this mess,” Leopold says, looking at one of the guards standing by the door. “Go, put one of your men on him.”
The guard gives a quick bow before leaving.
“Sympathetic as I am to the matter of cost, Ansel,” Leopold says, turning back toward him, “there are bigger factors at stake—King Cesare is planning on killing my ambassador. My mother is right—that is an act of war in and of itself. Who’s to say he won’t be pushing at Temarin’s borders next? And then there is the personal aspect,” he adds.
“Yes, in regard to Princess Beatriz…,” Lord Covier says, looking down at the papers in front of him. Sophronia’s heart gives a stutter. Beatriz is fine, she has to be. “There were some reports from our spies that Lord Savelle and Princess Beatriz had grown…close. They’ve dined together alone and had taken to walking together in the sea garden when no one was about. One of our spies speculates that that closeness might be the real reason for his imprisonment.”
Sophronia struggles to keep her face impassive, though she knows there is truth to that rumor. Beatriz told her so herself—she said she’d enjoyed their walks together, even liked the man. She still betrayed him, though, Sophronia thinks, because that was her assignment.
Just as Sophronia’s assignment is to push Leopold to declaring war. Once she forges an alliance between Friv and Temarin with King Bartholomew’s seal, Friv will fall in right behind it, entering a war that will leave all three countries so vulnerable that Bessemian forces could conquer them without much of a struggle.
Sophronia understood this in the abstract, when she viewed it playing out like pieces on a chessboard, cold marble figures falling one by one, but now that she’s here, she’s seen the personal cost behind it, how this war won’t just devastate Temarin’s security and economy but will kill its people—both in battle and from starvation.
Yes, her mother will be there to pick up the pieces; yes, she will eventually rebuild the country; yes, it might eventually become stronger as a result. But how many Temarinians won’t survive to see it?
The thought shouldn’t bother her. Bessemia above all. But even though the crown she wears is a hollow one, even though she has only been playing the role of queen, she can’t help but feel that these are her people. That she will be failing them.
Lord Covier continues, oblivious to Sophronia’s churning mind. “As I mentioned in our last meeting, there are plenty of scheming nobles looking to have Pasquale disinherited—I believe they’ll use Princess Beatriz’s ties to Savelle against her, and against Prince Pasquale as well. I’m in agreement with your mother. If we strike early, strike now, we will be able to catch them by surprise. We can work with the prince and princess to have King Cesare deposed and put them on the throne instead, before they lose any more support. Everyone wins.”
Everyone won’t win, Sophronia thinks. Maybe if Eugenia hadn’t depleted Temarin’s war chest, if the empress weren’t waiting to declare her own war once Temarin was wounded, maybe Lord Covier’s plan would have merit. Sophronia knows that when all is said and done, the only one who will win is the empress. Sophronia thought she would win with her, alongside Daphne and Beatriz—and isn’t that what winning looks like? The three of them together again, home again. Her sisters will be so surprised when they reunite, Sophronia thinks—she’s gotten quite good at standing up for herself, they won’t even recognize her. Maybe she won’t recognize them, either.
That is what winning looks like, what it has always looked like. But it doesn’t feel like winning now, not when she understands the cost.
“Sophie?” Leopold asks, drawing her out of her thoughts. “You’ve been unusually quiet. What are you thinking?”
Sophronia looks up at him and immediately wishes she hadn’t. His expression is open, his eyes utterly guileless. He trusts her, wants her help, and she knows without a hint of doubt that the advice she is supposed to give him will ruin him. Will ruin Temarin. She might not like Ansel, but he’s right—Temarin can’t afford this war. And the people who will suffer the worst will be the people most vulnerable. All so that her mother can claim a crown—another crown—and more land, more power.
She used to think Temarin would be better off under her mother’s rule, and maybe once that was true, but now? Leopold might not be perfect, but he’s trying. He cares. And Sophronia knows that together, they can pull Temarin out of the hole it has sunk into. She knows they can make it better, even better than her mother could, if only because they won’t have to break it first.
Sophronia knows the answer she is supposed to give. She imagines herself saying it. You should declare war. Four words. Not even her words, really, but ones that have been scripted for her since before she took her first breath. Words she has always been destined to say.
“Ansel is right,” she says instead. “Temarin can’t afford a war—going into it will destroy us.”
Leopold frowns. “Even if not doing it puts Pasquale and Beatriz in danger?” he asks.