The Right Side of History (Schooled In Magic Book 22) Read online

  The Right Side of History

  (Schooled in Magic XXII)

  Christopher G. Nuttall

  Twilight Times Books

  Kingsport Tennessee

  The Right Side of History

  This is a work of fiction. All concepts, characters and events portrayed in this book are used fictitiously and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2021 Christopher G. Nuttall

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, except brief extracts for the purpose of review, without the permission of the publisher and copyright owner.

  Twilight Times Books

  P O Box 3340

  Kingsport TN 37664

  http://twilighttimesbooks.com/

  First Edition, February 2021

  Cover art by Brad Fraunfelter

  Published in the United States of America.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue I

  Prologue II

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Epilogue

  Afterword

  Prologue I

  THE THRONE ROOM STANK OF FEAR.

  Constance, Lady in Waiting to Queen Francoise of Alluvia, pulled her dress around her as the noise from beyond the walls grew louder. Night had fallen, but the city outside was cast into sharp relief by towering infernos. The riots had become a revolution, crowds of rebels and thugs throwing lighted torches into the homes of the great and the good. She huddled closer to the rest of the royal companions as the queen stared at her husband. He’d once been a great man and a greater king. He’d chucked Constance’s chin and whispered promises of royal favors if she wished to become his. Now, he seemed almost diminished. The kingdom was fading alongside its king.

  It had all happened so quickly! Constance could barely keep track of each piece of news - bad news - before the next arrived. There had been fights over bread in the marketplace, of all things, fights that had turned into riots. The Royal Guard had arrived to break up the fighting, the City Guardsmen had turned on them and... Constance wasn’t sure what had happened next, but the king had lost control of his city. The castle gates had been slammed closed, wards snapped into place by royal magicians, but it hadn’t been enough to save everyone outside the walls. She’d heard a messenger screaming a warning about mansions going up in flames. The mob was running rampant, tearing through the aristocratic walls and hunting down the money-lenders and speculators. Constance had heard a tale of horror from the guards on the battlements, before the queen had cut them off. The money-lenders had been marched to the embankments and thrown to the rocks below. Their wives and daughters hadn’t been treated anything like so kindly.

  She shivered, helplessly, as the shouting grew louder. The mob was calling for blood... royal blood. Constance herself was a very distant relative of the king - her family lands were on the other side of the country, near the border with Red Rose - but she was sure it wasn’t enough to protect her. The bodyguards and chaperones her father had sent with her, when he’d allowed her to enter the queen’s service, were nowhere to be seen. She hoped they were safe, wherever they were. But she feared the worst.

  “Get out there.” Queen Francoise’s voice cut through the stifling tension. “Order them to disperse.”

  Constance winced and tried to hide it. The queen was a sharp-tongued woman, more of a man – even though Constance would never dare say that aloud - than her husband. Her position was unassailable. She didn’t have to produce a male heir - her predecessor had produced two boys who’d survived to adulthood - and she’d given the king two daughters. The king could hardly refuse to treat her with the respect she’d earned, even though he had no compunctions about taking mistresses and then discarding them. And yet... Constance could tell that the queen was making a mistake. Her husband was trapped between fire and water, unable to confront the crowd or lead his men into battle against the mob. All he could do was wait.

  “If only Dater was here,” Queen Francoise snapped. Her favorite stepson, according to rumor, had been disbanding his army when the rioting had turned into full-scale rebellion. “He would teach them all a lesson.”

  “Dater is a long way away,” the king said, mildly. “And I sent Hedrick out as soon as the trouble began.”

  “You should have sent him to deal with the crowds.” Queen Francoise frowned. “And now they’re at our door!”

  The king turned away from his wife, his fists clenching with anger. Constance understood. A king could not be a king if he couldn’t exert authority over his wife and children as much as his kingdom. Everyone knew it was just a matter of time before the Crown Prince, perhaps pushed by his stepmother, started to demand more power and authority than his father could reasonably give. Dater was old enough to rule and young enough to make his mark, if he inherited the throne. He was certainly prominent enough to seem a viable replacement, if the king lost too much face to rule. It wouldn’t be the first time a king had ‘voluntarily’ surrendered his power and gone into exile.

  Constance looked at the stone floor, trying not to attract attention. The king’s temper was starting to boil. She didn’t want to face his fury, not when no one would lift a hand in her defense. The assembled nobles feared the king too, feared what he might do if his back was against the wall. Constance felt cold, wondering - deep inside - if it might be better if the king was... convinced to abdicate in favor of his son. Dater was a dashing young man, so handsome and bursting with energy that no one would dare stand against him. Had he not been the hero of the wars? Had he not taken on a necromantic army and smashed it in an hour of furious combat? Had he not turned down the hand of Lady Emily herself, for the good of the kingdom? Constance’s heart fluttered at the thought. She was too low-born, for all the blue blood in her, to attract the prince... but she could dream.

  She glanced up as Councilor Triune ran into the room. He was normally jovial and warm to everyone, even the lowliest maidservants, but now his jowled face was streaked with sweat and his hands were shaking. Constance knew she shouldn’t listen, as he hastily knelt before the king, but she couldn’t help herself. Knowledge was power in the court, particularly if one got it before anyone else. She had long since mastered the art of eavesdro
pping without making it obvious. She didn’t know why she bothered sometimes. As a young woman from the borderlands, she was rarely considered important enough to matter. The only thing that kept her from being sent home was the favor of the queen.

  “Your Majesty!” Councilor Triune sounded as if he wanted to panic. “The sorcerers are dead!”

  A rustle ran round the chamber. Constance swallowed, hard. The walls were strong, but the royal court didn’t have enough men to hold them after the Royal Guard had been slaughtered. Or deserted. Or joined the rebels. The stories just kept getting worse and worse. If the rebels turned their attention to the castle, they could get over the walls. The sorcerers were dead. It was only a matter of time before the wards fell.

  The king glanced at his queen, then at the barred window looking over the courtyard and the city beyond. The bars weren’t that strong. If the rebels captured a catapult, or one of the new-fangled cannons, they could put a shot right through the window. Constance took no interest in military affairs, but even she knew that walls couldn’t be held forever. And then... she tried not to think about it. The rebels wanted blood. Her blood.

  No, she corrected herself. It was unlikely any of the mob knew who she was. They want the king’s blood.

  An idea flashed through her mind. She could leave the chamber, perhaps on the pretense of going to the water closet, and swap clothes with a maid. She could pretend to be a maid. No one would know, if she was dressed as a maid... the rebels would ignore her, allowing her to walk out and then... and then what? She didn’t know the city, beyond the inner walls. She couldn’t hope to walk home. She had only the faintest idea of the way!

  “We have a plan,” Councilor Triune babbled. “The troops will create a diversion. The rest of us will get into carriages and flee to the army camp. And then...”

  “Excellent,” the queen said. “Dater will purge the city with fire and blood.”

  The plan didn’t seem a very good idea to Constance, but no one bothered to ask her opinion. It was just taken for granted she’d accompany the queen, along with the remainder of her ladies. Councilor Triune’s men urged them down the stairs, into the rear courtyard, as troops ran forward to rally at the forward gates. They’d always struck Constance as fops, when they hadn’t been trying to court her in their clumsy manner, but... they were going to die in defense of their king. She wished she’d been kinder to the last knight who’d tried to court her. He’d been so dreadfully earnest she’d laughed in his face.

  She winced at the noise as they scrambled into the royal carriages. It was hardly her first time in a coach, but... she wished she were on horseback. An eager horse and a clear road... it was all she asked. The littlest princess asked for a horse for herself as she was bundled into another carriage with her nanny, her mother ignoring her cries as the door slammed firmly closed. Constance was tempted to suggest the princess was given a horse, that she was given a horse, but she didn’t dare. Councilor Triune fussed around, snapping orders to the guards as the sound of fighting grew louder. His face was too grim for her to risk speaking her mind. If he got the royal family out, his future would be assured. He was hardly going to alter the plan on her say-so.

  “Get in,” the queen snapped. “Now!”

  Constance heard someone - Councilor Triune, perhaps - give the command to open the rear gates as she scrambled into the carriage. The regal vehicle lurched as the door was banged closed, then started to move. Constance found a seat and sat down, trying not to look at the queen. The expression on her face promised death and destruction - and social exclusion, perhaps, for the one who disturbed her. Constance tried not to shiver openly. Law and order had broken down everywhere. She didn’t want to think about what might happen if the Crown Prince couldn’t regain control of the city. How many of the dressmakers and jewelers and others she’d patronized were about to die?

  “They’ll pay for this,” the queen said, more to herself than the rest of the passengers. It had the air of a blood oath, a promise that could not be broken. “They’ll pay in...”

  The shouting grew louder. The carriage lurched again, then crashed to a halt. Constance reached for the window to pull back the blinds, but the queen slapped her hand hard enough to hurt before she could touch the fabric. The carriage was quivering, as if someone was beating their fists against it... Constance started back as the door shook, then came free. A grim-faced man stared at her, his gaze swiftly turning into a leer. Behind him, the city burned.

  “Look,” he shouted. “We’ve captured the royal whores!”

  Before she could pull back, his hand snapped hold of Constance’s wrist and yanked her forward. She tumbled out of the carriage, hitting the paving stone before she could catch herself. Pain shot through her as strong arms jerked her to her feet, holding her so firmly she couldn’t pull free. The queen was dragged out too, to hoots and hollers from the rabble. Her eyes were wide with fear. Constance struggled against her captor, but she couldn’t break free. He was just too strong.

  She felt horror, numb horror, sinking into her as she looked past the carriage. The king’s carriage was ahead of her, the king himself being manhandled away by a group of men in red shirts. They were on the embankment, too close to the river to escape... she wondered, suddenly, if that had been deliberate. She couldn’t see Councilor Triune anywhere. The king’s man had vanished...

  A commanding voice cut through the crowd. “Take the whores to the Final Prison!”

  Constance shuddered as her captor started to push her forward. She’d heard all the stories about the Final Prison, about how it was the last port of call for men sentenced to death. If someone went in a prisoner, they didn’t come out again. Panic gave her strength: she stamped on her captor’s foot as hard as she could, then ran to the embankment. The river had dwindled over the last few months, as summer had started to bite, but if she could get into the water she could swim down to the distant lands beyond the walls. They wouldn’t expect her to be able to swim. Countrywomen learnt as a matter of course, but cityfolk regarded the idea of women swimming as perverse. It was...

  “Stop,” someone shouted. “Now!”

  Constance jumped... and realized, too late, that she’d misjudged. The river had shrunk too far. She was plummeting towards jagged rocks and the remains of sunken ships, not waters that might hide her long enough to let her escape. She thought, suddenly, of her parents. Would they ever know what had happened to her?

  In truth, she feared they would never know.

  Prologue II

  WHEN SHE’D BECOME QUEEN, ALASSA HAD instituted a very simple rule.

  She was not to be disturbed, she’d told her courtiers, between dinner and supper. Not unless the matter was urgent. Truly urgent. She’d made it clear, and backed it up, that anyone who disturbed her without very good reason would be spending the next week as a frog in the royal frog pond. It wasn’t something she was proud of, and she was uncomfortably aware she might miss something important because the messenger was reluctant to interrupt her, but it was vitally important for her sanity. A reigning monarch had so little time to herself that she had to do whatever it took to make sure she got it.

  It irked her, more than she would willingly admit to anyone, that she hadn’t realized just how much her father had to do until she’d inherited his throne. The king had risen early and worked from dawn till dusk, the men of his bedchamber - his inner councilors - feeling free to interrupt him whenever they pleased. The one advantage of being a Ruling Queen, Alassa had discovered, was that she didn’t have to keep her inner council so close, but it hadn’t taken long for her courtiers to reason out that they could send their wives, sisters and daughters instead. Alassa would have preferred to banish them permanently, but there was no way to send them away without causing massive offense. The last thing she needed was their husbands, brothers, and sons plotting revenge. She had enough troubles already.

  She kept her face under tight control until she stepped into her inner bedchamber, t
hen allowed herself to relax as the wards shimmered around her. It was hard, very hard, not to sag as she leaned against the door. Winning the war had been easy. Winning the peace, it seemed, was a great deal harder. She had to find a balancing point between factions that detested each other, factions that would hate and detest her if she showed the slightest hint of favoritism to their enemies. It felt as if she were stirring an unstable cauldron, the brew within permanently on the verge of exploding. There were times when she was tempted to grab her husband and daughter, empty the royal treasury and go into exile. In hindsight, she wondered how different her life would have been if she’d stayed at Whitehall instead of returning to Zangaria.

  Gathering herself, she walked past her year-old daughter’s bedchamber - Princess Emily was sleeping, her nursemaid sitting beside the cot - and into her bedroom. Jade was seated at the desk, reading the reports from the royal spies. They’d made sure to pick up the remnants of King Randor’s spy network and build their own, in hopes of preventing another coup or another aristocratic uprising. Alassa thought she understood, now, why her father had gone mad. There was never any shortage of disturbing reports, but how many of them were anything more serious than a slighted aristocrat venting to his friends? She didn’t know.

  Jade stood and gave her a hug. “Bad day?”

  “I had Lord Hardin, again,” Alassa said. It was hard to hide her disgust. “He wants to marry his ward.”

  “Bastard,” Jade agreed. “Want me to kill him?”

  Alassa was tempted. Lord Hardin had played his cards very well, somehow managing to remain on King Randor’s good side without alienating either the Noblest or Alassa herself. He’d certainly not taken any part in the civil war, ensuring that he evaded the sanctions Alassa had handed down to her father’s more open supporters. It helped, she supposed, that Hardin’s territory was right on the edge of the kingdom. It gave him a ready-made excuse for not sending anything more than thoughts and prayers. But it also made it hard for her to squash him like he deserved.