Chapter 13.5: Possibilities

Archduchess Tarinne of Nisen knew exactly how much wheat Korvethis would need by winter. She also knew that Lord Barrell was lying. Not particularly well, either. 

“The southern provinces produced nearly eight percent above projection,” he said, one thick finger resting on the parchment spread across the council table. “With the additional yield, we could increase exports to Korvethis by fifteen percent without affecting our reserves.”

Tarinne rested her chin lightly against her knuckles. Across the table, her father nodded. Two of his ministers did the same. Lord Barrell smiled. Tarinne looked down at the numbers again. She was twenty-one years old and had been permitted to sit at her father’s council table since she was sixteen. For the first two years, she had been expected to listen. For the third, she had been expected to listen and occasionally answer when spoken to. By the fourth, everyone had stopped pretending she was there to learn. 

“Which southern provinces?” 

Barrel’s smile faltered. “Your Grace?” 

“You said the southern provinces produced eight percent above projection. Which ones?” 

He glanced toward her father. Her father did not help him. “Ardin and Belmere primarily.” 

“Belmere lost nearly a fifth of its eastern fields to flooding.” 

“That was e-early in the season.” 

“Yes.” Tarinne smiled. It was a pleasant smile. She had been told so all her life. She had also learned that men found it considerably more unsettling when she smiled while disagreeing with them. “And the fields recovered remarkably quickly, apparently.” 

Someone at the far end of the table coughed into his fist. Barrel’s cheeks darkened. “The western fields compensated for their loss.” 

“Then we should congratulate them.” 

“Tarinne,” her father said. It wasn’t a reprimand, not quite. She lowered her hands and sat straighter. Sunlight streamed through the tall windows behind the council table, catching the reddish tones hidden in her dark brown hair. Her maid had twisted most of it into a braided knot that morning, though several stubborn waves had already escaped around her temples. 

Her mother said they softened her face. Tarinne suspected her mother simply liked them. The green gown she wore was simple by court standards, fitted closely though the bodice before falling in heavy folds to the floor. Tiny stalks of wheat had been embroidered in the gold along the cuffs. A narrow gold chain rested at her throat, and a signet ring of Nisen sat on her right hand. She wore no other jewels, she didn’t need them. 

“Lord Barrell,” Tarinne continued, “if the western fields truly compensated for Belmere’s losses, then I assume the transport records will show an equivalent increase in grain arriving at the southern storehouses.” 

Barrel said nothing. 

“Do they?” 

His mouth tightened. “There have been some discrepancies in the transport records.” 

“Ah.” Tarinne leaned back. There it was. 

Her father sighed. “How large are the discrepancies?” 

“We’re still determining that.” 

“No, you aren’t,” Tarinne said. Barrell looked back at her. Her father looked at her, everyone looked at her. Tarinne reached across the table and pulled one of the parchments toward herself. “The northern storehouses received eleven percent less grain than expected despite reporting normal yields. The western roads collected nearly the same tariffs as last year, which means approximately the same number of wagons passed through them, and yet we’re being told we have more grain?” She slid the parchment back. “So either Nisen has discovered a miraculous variety of wheat that becomes heavier when no one is looking…” 

The corner of her father’s mouth twitched. 

“...or someone is counting the same grain twice.” 

Silence. 

Lord Barrell swallowed. 

Tarinne turned to her father. “We don’t have fifteen percent more to send to Korvethis.” 

“How much do we have?” 

“Five, safely. Seven if the autumn remains mild.” 

“And if it doesn’t?” her father asked. 

“Three.” 

Her father tapped his finger against the table. “What if Korvethis offers above market value?” 

“Then they are welcome to pay it.” Lord Barrell blinked. Tarinne continued before he could speak. “But we don’t give them more.” 

“Tarinne,” one of the older ministers said carefully, “an opportunity to increase Korvethian dependence on Nisen is worth some risk.” 

“Of course it is.” Tarinne spoke, the minister relaxed. “
But starving our own people would rather undermine the point.” He stiffened again. Tarinne looked around the table. “If Korvethis needs our grain, we gain influence. If Korvethis needs our grain and discovers we cannot reliably provide it, we lose influence. And if our own markets suffer because we sent too much across the border, we lose something considerably more valuable.” She paused. “Trust.” 

Her father watched her for a long moment. Then he looked at Barrell. “Five percent.” Barrell opened his mouth. “Five,” her father repeated. “And find the missing grain.” 

“Yes, Your Grace.” Barrell said, though it felt thick in his mouth. The meeting continued. Tarinne stopped listening for exactly twelve seconds, long enough to hide her smile behind her cup. 

“You enjoyed that.” Tarinne glanced sideways. Her mother was waiting beneath the covered walkway outside the council chamber, dressed in a pale blue with her hands folded neatly in front of her. 

“I have no idea what you mean.” Tarinne insisted. 

“You made Lord Barrell sweat.” 

“He was lying.” Tarinne’s voice prickled. 

“That doesn’t mean you didn’t enjoy it.” 

Tarinne considered this. “No.” 

Her mother laughed. They walked together toward the eastern courtyard. Nisen was warm that afternoon. Beyond the palace walls, the hills rolled gold and green beneath a clear sky. Farmland stretched almost to the horizon, broken by orchards, villages, and the pale lines of roads winding between them. 

Tarinne had always loved seeing Nisen from there. Not because it belonged to her family, because it didn’t. That was something her father occasionally forgot. The land belonged to the people working it. Their family merely had the extraordinary privilege, and terrible responsibility, of making decisions that could ruin it. 

“Your father received another letter from Korvethis,” her mother said. 

Tarinne’s steps slowed. “From the High King?” 

“I believe so.” 

“And?” Tarinne could feel her heart beating faster. 

“I wasn’t invited to that conversation.” 

“You’re invited to every conversation. 

“Which is precisely how I know when someone is trying very hard not to invite me.” 

Tarinne smiled. Her mother bumped her shoulder gently against hers. It was an absurdly ordinary gesture for the Vicerene of Nisen. Tarinne loved her for it. “Trade?” she asked. 

“Among other things.” 

Ah. 

Tarinne looked toward the fields. Somewhere below them, workers were gathering the last of the summer crops. Tiny figures moved between long rows, wagons trailing behind them. 

“Walric,” she said. Her mother did not answer, but she didn’t need to. Tarinne had known Prince Walric’s name since she was thirteen. At fourteen, she learned he was one year older than she was. At fifteen, she learned he preferred history to mathematics and had an unfortunate tendency to become impatient with tutors he considered repetitive. 

At sixteen, she read everything she could find about the Korvethian succession. At seventeen, her father finally stopped speaking in hypotheticals. Nothing had been promised, no contract had been written. No betrothal was announced, but Nisen had grain and Korvethis had power. Most importantly, High King Malrik had sons. 

Tarinne had never needed anyone to explain the rest. “Do you think he’s horrible?” she asked. 

Her mother laughed. “Tarinne.” 

“It’s a reasonable question.” 

“You’ve never met him.” 

“Neither have you.” 

“No.” Her mother sighed and scratched a grain of dirt out from under her fingernails. 

“So, he could be horrible.” 

“He could.” 

“Cruel?” 

“Possibly.” 

“Hideous?” 

“Also possible.” 

Tarinne frowned. “I’ve seen a portrait.” 

Her mother rolled her eyes. “Portrait painters are paid.” 

“Fair.” They continued walking. 

Her mother was smiling now. “You’ve thought about him.” 

“Of course I’ve thought about him.”  Tarinne told her. How could she not?” 

“As a husband?” 

“As a…political inevitability.” 

“That is not the same thing.” 

Tarinne was quiet for a moment. “It frequently is for people like us.” Her mother’s smile disappeared. Tarinne wished she hadn’t said it. Not because it wasn’t true, but because her mother knew it was. “I don’t resent it.” Tarinne assured. 

“I know.” 

“And it makes sense.” 

“I know.” Her mother’s voice was getting smaller. 

“Korvethis is the most powerful country on the continent. A marriage would give Nisen protections no treaty ever could. Our merchants would gain access to their eastern roads. Their ports would open to our goods. If Walric eventually holds significant authority,” 

“Tarinne.” her mother stopped her. She took her hands. Tarinne’s deep green eyes met hazel ones. “You are allowed to wonder whether you will like him. 

Tarinne stared at her for a moment. “That seems remarkably inefficient.” 

Her mother burst out laughing, Tarinne tried not to, but failed. 

“Fine,” she said. “Yes, I wonder.” 

“And?” 

“And…I hope he isn’t horrible.” Tarinne let out a big sigh. 

“A promising beginning.” 

Tarinne continued. “I hope he is intelligent.” 

“Dangerous expectations.” her mother hissed. 

“I don’t need him to be brilliant.” 

“How generous.” 

“But I need him to be curious.” Her mother studied her. That answer, apparently, had been more revealing than Tarinne intended. She looked away. “I don’t think I could bear a man who believes he already understands everything.” 

“No,” her mother said softly. “I don’t think you could.” 

Tarinne pulled one hand free. “Besides, none of this matters yet. High King Malrik has several sons.”

“Yes.” her mother agreed. 

“And there are dozens of noble daughters closer to Korvethis.” 

“Yes.” she agreed again. 

“And father has been talking about this for years.” 

“Yes.” 

Tarinne was starting to get sick of that word. “So until an actual proposal arrives, Prince Walric can remain safely theoretical.” 

Her mother smiled. “Safely theoretical.”

“Exactly.” They walked for a while longer before she turned to an overgrowth of stalks that lead to the royal gardens.  Tarinne kissed her cheek. “I have somewhere to be.” 

Her mother raised an eyebrow. “Do you?” 

“Yes.” 

“Where?” 

Tarinne was already walking backward. “Somewhere.” 

“Tarinne.” her mother demanded. 

“Mother.”

Her mother huffed. “Does this somewhere have a name?” Tarinne grinned. Her mother closed her eyes. “Oh, for heaven’s sake.” 

“I’ll be back for supper.” 

“Tarinne.” her mother yelled, but she was already gone. 

It was much later when Tarinne returned to her rooms later than she had intended. Her hair was completely down now. That was the first thing her maid noticed. The second was probably the grass on the hem of her gown. The third…

“Don’t.” Tarinne warned. Her maid closed her mouth. Tarinne pointed at her. “Not one word.” The older woman pressed her lips together. Her shoulders shook from laughter. “You are employed by the Archduchess of Nisen.” 

“Yes, Your Grace.” the maid bowed her head. 

“You should behave with greater dignity.” Tarinne scoffed. 

“Yes, Your Grace.” bowed again. 

“...stop smiling.” 

“Yes, Your Grace.” the maid said, now focusing a lot of her attention on her facial features. Tarinne narrowed her eyes, the maid smiled harder. Tarinne threw a hairpin at her and missed. 

She was still smiling when she climbed into bed. 

Nine days later, Tarinne sat at her writing desk staring at a calendar. There were three trade reports beside it, a letter from her father, two invitations, and a half finished response to the agricultural minister. She had read none of them. 

Instead, she counted. Then she counted again. She then frowned. She pulled another ledger from the drawer and checked the date. She counted backward. “No.” she whispered it because saying it louder would make it more real. 

Tarinne was good with numbers, very good. Numbers behaved, numbers did not become inconvenient because you disliked the answer. She counted a third time anyway. Her stomach had tightened. She had been busy. There had been council meetings, the harvest reports, her aunt’s visit, three days in the southern provinces. 

That could explain it…stress could explain it…travel could explain it. A dozen perfectly ordinary things could explain it. Tarinne slowly lowered the calendar. Outside her window, the fields of Nisen glowed gold beneath the setting sun. Somewhere hundreds of miles away lived a prince she had been raised knowing she might someday marry. 

On her father’s desk sat a letter from his father. And Tarinne, careful, brilliant, perfectly prepared Tarinne was late…very late.