by Matthew Ward
A trick of the artist’s craft granted each the impression of paying homage, reaffirming Melanna’s young belief in her grandfather’s sagacity. Why else would the divine heed him so? How could ephemeral kings do other than accept his wisdom? These days, she knew better, her illusions about the unity of Empire shattered by a thousand petty quarrels. And having walked the glimmerless waters of the Celestial Clock she’d seen first-hand how little regard gods held for any save themselves.
She also knew why her grandfather had so often perched on the throne’s extent – no number of cushions could make it anything less than bitterly uncomfortable. All things being equal, Melanna would much rather have stood.
She clung to the knowledge that tomorrow would be easier. With the chamber crowded for the Golden Court’s Midwintertide banquet, she’d be permitted – nay, expected – to walk its bounds, offering welcome to monarchs, chieftains and petty worthies from two dozen realms. But tonight, with only the monarchs of the Gwyraya Hadar, the great kingdoms of Empire, gathered in a semicircle about the dais – if one ignored the heirs, advisors and shield-bearers who swelled intimate gathering to a small crowd – she had to endure not only the throne’s discomforts, but also the ingenuine smiles of peers wary that the changes she’d brought to Rhaled would spread.
“Majesty.”
Her cropped black hair glittering with silver-set rubies, Aelia Andwaral curtseyed. Where all others in the throne room were gaudy with ancestral colour and shimmering silks, she favoured a plain black gown decadent in its humility. Mourning for a nation crippled by war where others bore their grief proudly, or not at all. Aelia looked incomplete without a sword at her side, but the only blades permitted at conclave were those of the Rhalesh Immortals who ringed the dais. And, of course, the silvered blade whose scabbard hung from the throne’s crooked armrest.
Melanna embraced her. “Essavim. It’s been too long.”
“You’re walking into an ambush,” breathed Aelia. “Tread with care.”
Melanna withdrew, careful to give no sign of having heard.
“Majesty.” King Cardivan of Silsaria offered a low bow.
She responded with a briefer nod. “Cardivan. You had safe journey?”
No need to ask where the threatened ambush lay. For all his snow-white hair, Cardivan Tirane was dangerous. Belated inheritance had left him with a taste for advancement and, though the bloodlines had long ago diverged, distant lineage from Hadar Saran granted a claim to the throne.
“I have never felt safer, majesty. I was comforted to feel your eyes upon me at every step.”
“You overestimate the scope of my sight,” she replied.
“Perhaps.” Cardivan’s smile lacked warmth. “I’m sure I’m never far from your thoughts.”
“Nor I from yours.”
She continued about the semicircle.
“Empress.” Prince Thirava, Regent of Redsigor, was not the actor his father was, or perhaps he’d simply not yet learned to delight in deeds divergent from thought. His bow was stiff and resentful – offered to one he didn’t consider his equal, let alone his superior. Nor did his thin, moustachioed features quite lose the ghost of a sneer. Then again, men of royal blood seldom lacked for arrogance, and arrogance – as Melanna’s father had frequently reminded her – was more dangerous than a sword.
Like a sword, it was better met in kind than not at all.
“The Midwinter conclave is a place for the Gwyraya Hadar, not client realms, Prince Thirava,” she said. “Your presence would be more appropriate tomorrow, before the full court.”
His bleak stare met hers. “The traditions of our fathers are as dear to me as to you, majesty.” The familiar insult was veiled just enough for denial. “I’m present as my father’s heir.”
Aelia gave a disdainful shake of the head. Melanna merely held Thirava’s gaze, wondering idly if he’d the spine to brazen out the false claim. Herself included, the room held the monarchs of eight Great Kingdoms, but nine shields grounded at their bearers’ feet – Thirava’s personal blazon of a rearing stag distinct from his father’s passant emblem. Three other heirs had come to conclave, and none with heraldry of their own.
“Then, as heir, I welcome you, and trust I shall not hear you speak further until tomorrow.”
She continued on, greeting each monarch in turn. Prince Miradan – representing a father too frail to travel the long leagues from Britonis – gave a wry smile that might have been sympathy; King Haralda of Corvant a respectful bow. Agrana, Dotha Novona – the only other woman yet to cheat tradition and claim regal inheritance, and alas living proof that women could be as venal as men – offered neither.
Melanna took care to greet not only the kings of Kerna and Demestae, but also their heirs. She paid special heed to Princessa Nari of Kerna, who’d someday face a struggle as great as her own. Or perhaps not. That one as young as Nari’s twelve winters had been permitted to join the Midwintertide conclave spoke to changing times.
The advisors she ignored entirely. Like her guards, trumpeters and servants, they were present only as extensions of their monarchs.
Formality attended to, and servants ushered to ply guests with wine and sweetmeats, the ancient throne could be put off no longer. Skirts whispering on stone, Melanna passed through the ring of Immortals, arranged herself as comfortably as its contours allowed, and raised a hand. “What business do you bring before the throne?”
As at the last conclave, the perennial issue of the eastern border and the febrile settlement with the Ithna’jîm dominated early discussions, with the usual accusations flying between Miradan and Haralda that the other marshalled insufficient spears to tame Itharoci phalanxes.
Dispute between Novona and Demestae followed, Queen Agrana venting displeasure at the taxes King Langdor levied upon her subjects’ traders. For his part, Langdor retaliated with claims that a string of islands in Mar Karakeld – which a recent bequest had placed once again beneath the protection of Novona’s trident, and not the Demestan bear – had been stolen through conspiracy.
Melanna spoke only in mediation. Aligning with one side would only alienate the other. Her father might have taken the risk, but he’d inherited a far stronger realm from Ceredic than she from him. Ravaged by the holy war of Kai Saran’s Avitra Briganda, Rhaled’s armies relied on the friendship of Icansae to safeguard the throne. Rhaled, and indeed the wider Empire – save perhaps the realms of Kerna and Novona who had taken no part in the Avitra Briganda – could scarcely afford another war.
Her peers showed no such restraint, offering glimpses of pacts broken and realigned to prevailing need. Corvant and Britonis might bicker about spears along the border, but they were united when it came to placing demands on the treasury for irrigation works and firm roads. For all that the Empire had begun hundreds of leagues south of where its capital now lay, wealth had ever lingered in the cities of the north.
Langdor remained an opportunist, picking and choosing his sides more on the principle of what would fill his coffers than what would benefit the folk of Demestae. Silsaria, Kerna and Novona were seldom in anything other than accord, with Cardivan often making generous concessions to Bodra and Agrana to keep things so. Redsigor, of course, offered no opinion, though Thirava’s mind doubtless aligned with his father’s. Aelia remained distant, but when she spoke, others listened. Icansae’s voice carried weight, even though it was the least of the Gwyraya Hadar.
But for all the fire of discussion, compromise prevailed and hostilities were set aside. By the time the fires burned low and wine eased tongues, King Haralda took advantage of a lull in conversation.
“Majesty, I have a request on behalf of my people.”
That was unexpected. Of the Gwyraya Hadar, distant Corvant was least apt to make trouble. But the word request covered a multitude of desires and ambitions. Perhaps Cardivan was not the architect of Aelia Andwaral’s warned-of ambush.
“Proceed,” said Melanna.
“We wish to raise
a temple dedicated to your divine being,” Haralda replied. “A goddess is loved more if her face is—”
“No.” Melanna stifled a wince, the knowledge she’d spoken too hastily affirmed by thin smiles elsewhere. That the Corvanti espoused the divinity of Saran blood had ever been a source of contempt, not least because most deemed it a tool by which the ruling line controlled their populace.
“I can assure you, majesty, that only the finest artisans would be retained. Your divine image will stand as a protective colossus over Szadat. It will be so beautiful that all will have to avert their eyes, lest they be overcome.”
Was he enjoying this? “I’m not a goddess, Haralda. You know this as well as I.”
“You are too modest, majesty.” His eyes drifted to the scabbard hanging from the throne. “Are you not Ashanal? A daughter of the perfect moon?”
He was enjoying this. Or perhaps he feared returning home rejected. Either way, refusing Haralda’s request would be taken as affront. She’d trouble enough elsewhere without inviting more. Leagues counted for little when insult set armies to the march. However, for all that the Corvanti venerated the House of Saran, false claims of divinity would only sour relations elsewhere in the Golden Court.
But an answer had to be given.
Melanna let her fingers brush the sword’s silvered hilt. The lunassera claimed metal held resonance of those who touched it in moments of great darkness, or great joy. Her father had wielded the blade at such times, but if a piece of his spirit lingered, it withheld counsel. But perhaps he held the answer, all the same.
“I’m humbled,” she replied, “but my answer remains.”
Cardivan offered a brief smile. Doubtless he’d encouraged Haralda’s petition. Having his agents stir the Corvanti populace to the request would have been easy. Piety and priesthood were not always firm friends, and gold led wagging tongues astray.
Haralda shot a glance at his courtiers. “Majesty, I must ask you to reconsider. My people—”
“I cannot allow it.” She paused, eking out the tension to add palatability to the following words. “Not until my father is given his due. Corvant endures through his sacrifices. Now he sits at Ashana’s side on Evermoon, and wonders why he is so soon forgotten.” She leaned forward. “Let the God Kai Saran stand as Szadat’s guardian, and when I too walk the gardens of Evermoon, let your daughter petition mine, that I may stand beside him.”
“An excellent suggestion,” said Aelia.
Cardivan scowled, likely as much at the prospect of the throne passing to another woman as to another Saran. Agrana of Novona and Bodra of Kerna echoed his disfavour, though more guardedly. But the ambush was thwarted. None could argue that Kai Saran – the man who’d slaughtered the Tressian Council in their own stronghold – was undeserving of recognition.
Haralda nodded, colour returning to his cheeks. “It shall be done.”
He withdrew to his shield. When no other showed inclination to take his place, Melanna allowed herself to relax. Perhaps she was getting better at this.
She rose. “Then if there are no other petitions, I call this conclave to a close.”
Thirava stepped forward. “There is—”
“There is one further matter, majesty,” Cardivan interrupted smoothly, throwing his son a warning look. “Redsigor’s acknowledgement as a full kingdom.”
Melanna reluctantly retook the throne. “At last conclave, we agreed Redsigor would remain a province until fully settled. The Empire does not need unwilling subjects.”
“Your great-great-grandfather thought differently,” said King Bodra. “As did his uncle before him. Neither my countrymen nor the Corvanti knelt willingly before the throne.”
“And in each case, decades of strife followed,” said Melanna.
“You’d compare the might of Corvant’s armies to that of Tressian farmers?” said Haralda. Worship did not wholly eclipse pride. Rhalesh spears had run the Corvanti grasslands red before Haralda’s ancestor had bent the knee. “What can they do?”
“Anarchy spreads like infection,” said Aelia. “We’d be fools to invite it within our borders.”
“Redsigor is settled,” snapped Thirava, again forgetting he was not meant to speak before conclave or too angry to care. “The populace are recalcitrant, but they are learning. I have the matter in hand.”
“I’m not deaf to what occurs between the Rappadan and the Ravonn.” Melanna made a point of addressing her words to Cardivan, and not Thirava. “I’m troubled by much of what I hear. Curfews. Work camps. Executions. These are not our methods.”
Cardivan twitched a shrug. “I’m sure what you hear is exaggerated. As for the rest? The Tressians make it necessary. They feed insurrection at every turn.” He stroked his chin, the image of a man arriving at unexpected thought. “But perhaps Redsigor is not the issue.”
“And what is?”
“That we have yet to finish what your father started,” said Queen Agrana.
Bodra nodded, beard brushing against the shimmering blues of his robes. “The Tressians will never accept Redsigor as our territory. Sooner or later, they will send swords to reclaim it.”
With those words, the true ambush lay revealed, confirmed by Agrana’s nod of agreement.
“My father’s war is done,” snapped Melanna. “I will not reopen old wounds.”
“It was no more your father’s war than it is yours, or mine,” said Cardivan. “It is simply how things have ever been. That is why Redsigor remains tumultuous, despite my son’s ceaseless effort. Your caution does you credit, but courage has always served us better.”
“There’s fine separation between courage and foolishness,” growled Aelia. “Accusing your Empress of cowardice crosses that line.”
Cardivan frowned, his eyes still on Melanna. “I meant no such insult, majesty. We’ve all borne witness to your valour. You say Redsigor cannot be considered a full kingdom until it knows peace. Perhaps we should look upon this as opportunity to embrace the inevitable. And if you’re too distracted to lead the campaign, well—”
Never more aware of the thorn scratches on her cheeks, Melanna rose and fixed him with an icy stare. “So now I am not only a coward, but I lack apt priorities?”
“Forgive me, majesty, but you were late to this conclave, and I understand there was some commotion earlier tonight.” He radiated concern, all of it false. “I trust all is now well?”
Of course he knew something had gone awry, if not the full shape of it. Melanna trusted her Immortals and the servants who tended the royal quarters, but there could have been no concealing the hue and cry following Kaila’s disappearance. “Yes.”
“Ashana be praised. I know as well as any that the needs of a child alter a parent’s perspective. On the blood we share, I swear I meant nothing more than that. I merely suggest that Thirava would be honoured to act as your champion in the campaign. He, after all, has the most to gain from success, and my son is ready for a throne.”
Which meant Silsaria intended to lay claim to whatever Tressian lands were conquered, expanding the borders of its client kingdom of Redsigor. Doubtless, spoils had been agreed with Bodra and Agrana to ensure support. And that last line… especially combined with the reminder of common ancestry? A warning that if Redsigor had no throne for Thirava to warm, Cardivan would look to set him upon hers. With Rhaled and Icansae weakened, and Kerna and Novona at his back, he might even manage it.
The simple thing to do would be to grant Redsigor the status Thirava demanded. Not all kingdoms were equal, and a client realm of Silsaria scarcely had more influence than a regent’s province. But neither Thirava nor Cardivan would be content long. They’d scent blood in the compromise, and follow the spoor to its end.
“I gave my decision at last conclave.” Again, Melanna addressed her reply to Cardivan, and not Thirava. “The peaceful settlement of Redsigor is not a sop to pride, or to conscience. It is the means by which those we invite into the Empire are proven worthy of a place with
in it… and that he who would rule them has the proper balance of humours to be worthy of a throne. An Empire should be concerned with its people, not its land, Cardivan.”
Aelia grinned. Haralda and Miradan nodded approval, as did one or two courtiers – though notably not those from Kerna, Novona or Silsaria. Nari of Kerna smiled, but shrank to stillness before her father could glimpse the small rebellion.
Cardivan’s features went rigid. “Can I suggest you take counsel before making a final decision? With Prince Aeldran, perhaps.”
“My consort and I are in one mind on this. And the decision is made.”
“It’s the wrong decision,” snapped Thirava, stepping to join his father beyond the semicircle’s arc. “Redsigor—”
Golden scales rustled as the Immortals beside the throne started forward. A needless precaution. Thirava wouldn’t attack her any more than she him. Not that Melanna wasn’t tempted. The goddess’ silver sword would solve so many problems at a single stroke… but it would also create others. Her grandfather would have killed Thirava. Her father might have done so, though it would have been in the ritualised setting of a champion’s duel. As for her great-great-grandfather? Well, Thirava would have been dead already. Power was a thief of patience, and Alfric Saran had never much of that particular virtue to begin with.
But Melanna had long ago sworn not to let the throne shape her. Cardivan was a lost cause, Thirava too. The others, however? There might yet be a chance to show them that wisdom was more than a drawn sword.
She held up a hand, bringing the Immortals to a halt. Cardivan, face now contorted with barely concealed fury, seized Thirava’s arm and brought lips level with his ear. No words reached Melanna, but Thirava’s poisonous expression told its own story. Tearing free, he retreated to his shield, leaving his father, composure returned, to offer a bow.