The Shattered Court by M.J. Scott
For the other Sophie (who is small and fluffy) and her mad pal, Callie.
Excellent writer cats.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
As always, I have to thank Jessica Wade for helping me see my story better, Miriam Kriss for providing excellent advice and excellent margaritas, and the Roc art department, who truly put the art in cover art. Big thanks and hugs also to all my writer pals who get me through the hard bits and celebrate the good bits and the rest of my family and friends, who do likewise. And to all the lovely readers who keep reading my stories, thank you. You’re all awesome!
Deep the earth
Its harvest life
Bright the blood
Sharpest in strife
Swift the air
To hide and fool
False the water
The deadly pool
CHAPTER ONE
“Milady, please pay attention.”
It was precisely the last thing she wanted to do. For a second, Sophie Kendall rebelled, lingering where she was, hands pressed into the pale gray skirts of her dress, no doubt wrinkling the silk. She had a sudden wild urge to bolt through the half-open glass doors and flee. But then her good sense, or at least her sense of resignation, returned, and she forced herself to turn away and smile apologetically at her tutor.
“But they’re playing so well.” She looked back over her shoulder at the two teams of young men playing roundball on the Indigo Lawn outside the doors, envy biting. Oh, to be so free. Here in the palace she wouldn’t be able to join in the game. Proper young ladies, let alone ladies-in-waiting, didn’t play roundball at court. But she could, at least, sit and watch. Or she could if she ever had the luxury of nothing to do.
Just an hour or two to herself in the sunshine. Was that too much to ask for?
She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a spare hour or two alone. And right now she couldn’t imagine when she might next do so.
Captain Turner’s bushy white eyebrows drew together, but his expression was kind. “Milady, your twenty-first birthday is in two days. There will be plenty of time for frivolity then. But now you need to learn this.” He gestured to the large leather book on the table in front of him. “Your Ais-Seann is not a trivial matter. Do I need to remind you that you’re—”
“Thirty-second in line to the throne, about to come into my birthright if I have one,” Sophie said. “I know the speech, Captain. It’s just . . .” I want to be more than Lady Sophia Kendall, valuable broodmare. But proper young ladies didn’t say such things out loud. At times, being a proper young lady was enough to make her want to scream.
“It’s such a nice day,” she continued, trying not to sound too impatient. Sunlight streamed through the windows, making the lesson room seem dull in comparison. The breeze coming through the outer doors was just strong enough to carry the scent of grass and the early-blooming blossoms and possibility into the room. It made her skin itch. It made her want to tell the royal family and the court and everyone else weighing her down with expectation to go to hell. Made her want to run far, far away.
But the captain’s face showed no sympathy for the restlessness she’d been feeling all day, and she doubted he’d show any actual sympathy if she tried a grander rebellion like leaving the room. Most likely he’d just send a squad of the guard after her to carry her back.
The king, the crown princess, and several hundred years of Anglese tradition wanted her prepared for her Ais-Seann, so she would be prepared for her Ais-Seann. Her Age of Beginning. Beginning of adulthood. Beginning, possibly, of magic. Beginning of many things she wasn’t entirely sure she wanted to begin.
If indeed she proved to have any magic, her power would be dedicated to the goddess with all the proper rites and her person married off promptly to whichever nobleman the king thought best. A royal witch was a prize for the men of the court, and the stronger she was, the higher ranked and more influential the noble to whom she would be wed would be. Not that any of the available high lords of the court struck her as men she was longing to spend her life with. Most of them were fifteen or twenty years older than her, for a start.
If she turned out not to have any power, she’d be married off less promptly to some more obscure lordling and might at least get to leave Kingswell and the relentless mores and rules of the court.
The lesser of two evils, just. Maybe. She wasn’t entirely sure. Her hands began twining in her skirts again, and she forced them to relax.
There was nothing to be done to protest her fate or escape from it. She didn’t have any control over whether she was going to manifest magic, and she’d been schooled from birth to take her place in the court and the society of Anglion. She just wasn’t entirely sure why, when she’d known since she was old enough to understand what would happen when she turned twenty-one, it was becoming harder and harder to meekly accept with each passing hour. Perhaps it was just nerves.
Perhaps everything would be perfectly fine if she just kept putting one foot in front of the other and did as she was asked to do. So, like a proper young lady, she smoothed her skirts where her hands had gripped them and sat back down next to the captain.
“I know this seems tedious, child,” he said. “But you need to know how to control your magic if it comes in. Royal witches are strong, and we can’t predict how your gift will behave when it manifests.”
“You can’t predict that it will manifest at all,” Sophie said, trying not to let irritation shade her words.
“Given your bloodlines, there is a high probability that you will have power, Lady Sophia.”