by Mira Zamin
***
After a breakfast of leftover spiced potatoes—apparently in Gwydion’s whole band of marauders, there was not a single man who knew how to cook—I visited Auralia. I straightened her sheets and smoothed away hair plastered to her brow. Dropping a kiss at her temple, I opened the wardrobe wide.
“Your dresses are so lovely!” I said to her, running my hand down the fine fabrics. “All this silk! You would have laughed to see me in Clemen. Wearing fine woolens like a goodwife and working for a living! A governess. To a boy four years my senior.”
Chatting with her as if my rambling would reanimate her, I decided upon a narrow orange dress which bared my shoulders. The color complemented my bruises. I shimmied into it, pulling it over my hips with some effort. Sitting at Auralia’s side, I brushed my hair and exhaustively divulged my story to her sleeping form, speaking about Viziéra, my fear of Gwydion, my dread for her and our family’s well-being, my aspirations for Aquia.
“You see Auralia,” I said, “I do not know how I will take care of Aquia. Everyone is asleep, but we cannot let everything freeze or swelter, die and rot for a hundred years. Perhaps I will try to invite people from other emirdoms to till and manage the land, but then what happens when you lot wake? We cannot boot them out with a thank-you card.
“But I know what else I must do: I will find the person to break your curse. Although you would have made things easier for everyone if you had found him on your own.” I laughed wanly. And what if he too sleeps? I refused to entertain the thought.
Someone softly clapped. I jumped around defensively. I did not relax when I saw it was Gwydion. “What do you want?” I snapped.
“I am glad you see the difficulty that arises from this curse. It is necessary you and I consult with our advisors about the most pressing issues.”
“What advisors, exactly? All I see are your cronies.” I ushered Gwydion out, closing Auralia’s door safely behind us.
He ignored my question. “A stack of wedding invitations is being drawn up for you to sign as we speak. By this time next month, we shall be officially invested as the rulers of Aquia.”
Oh, is that what he thinks? I was tempted to push him down the stairs. “I cannot plan two lavish functions without maids, ushers, servers, seamstresses and the like. We shall have to invite foreign farmers, craftsmen, and servants to Aquia. I doubt that even your retinue could orchestrate a wedding doubling as an investiture—despite their noted skill at coups d’etat—without any resources.” I sketched a wry bow.
In the Grand Hall, standing beside the dais were two of Gwydion’s friends, Lord Kay and Count Farzal. I assumed they had arrived in the night. I raised an eyebrow and invited them to sit at the long table. Lowering myself into the gold and onyx seat of Aquia, I relegated Gwydion to the Consort’s chair. Where he belonged.
“We need to invite people from other emirdoms and even from across the seas from countries like Hademer and Avarain to fill the gap,” I began without preamble. “They will come and they and their descendants will farm and work the abandoned lands through the future and garner all the profits of their labors. Once the curse is lifted, twenty acres of land will be guaranteed to the oldest child of the family to do with as they will. But can Aquia supply these twenty acres to so many so easily?” I squirmed in my tight gown, inadvertently drawing the attention of Farzal and Kay. Uncomfortable, I cleared my throat. “Well?”
“What do you think, eh Gwyd?” said Kay, hands thrown up behind his head. I half-expected him to kick his legs onto the table. “Er, I mean Lord Gwydion?”
Gwydion glared at me irritably. I smirked.
Kay flipped through some papers and scratched out figures on parchment while we waited patiently. “Given a marginal rate of error in our calculations, Aquia can quite readily provide lands for these new settlers as well as the native Aquians for at least a generation. Beyond that, it no longer is our problem.”
Although I knew it was irresponsible to leave such a burden on my descendants, I also recognized that this was the most expedient option available. “Very well then. Spread the word of the opportunity available in Aquia.” I struck on another problem. “How exactly do we decide which lands will be given to the folk who come to answer your call? And, do we not need new nobles to govern the lands? I am vassal to Queen Erina and I report to her, but I need my vassals who will report to me.”
“This one is tricky.” Gwydion steepled his fingers. “We cannot grant titles to new nobles when those nobles who are sleeping own those lands. Perhaps you have an idea?” He indulged me with a smile.
I thought for a few minutes. “Suppose we…we find the most able newcomers and leave them and their family the rights to rule the land until the curse is lifted, after which the Mehal will grant them three hundred acres of land or an advisory position.”
“Seems a lot to give a load of rowdy peasants.” Farzal wrinkled his nose gingerly.
However, Kay in a stroke of intelligence, perceived my motives. “What the Emira suggests is giving the power to help govern the land and a good bit of land itself in exchange for their tenure as ‘lords,’ if you will. But will they still be called lords? It may give them some illusions of superiority.”
I decided I rather liked Kay, Gwydion’s crony or not.
“We will give them a title later…Lord-Seat or something to connote the temporariness of the affair. That’s of little consequence. The initial and most important issue is to ensure that the lands are governed well and wisely. Who knows,” I added, “it may be that some of our Lord-Seats will be more adept at the business of governing than some of our lords.”
Gwydion straightened in the Consort’s chair. “Thank you for your ideas. Indeed, you have helped us greatly today. You should now rest, perhaps take a walk about the gardens. We can handle the rest of the business between ourselves.” Looking at his chair, he laughed. “After all, it is the duty of the Consort to ascertain that his Lady does not wrinkle her clear forehead.”
Farzal joined in his laughter, but my humor thinned.
“Oh no. I believe I am quite fine where I am,” I said firmly. “The business of Aquia cannot proceed without me. After all, I am the Emira-Regent.”
Gwydion’s smile was sour as spoiled milk. “My dear wife, you appear to be under a misapprehension. Your role here is as nothing greater than an accessory, an ornament. You should acquaint yourself with this reality immediately: I am the power in Aquia.”
Kay and Farzal sat awkwardly at the table. Kay rifled too-loudly through his papers and Farzal stared intently at the tiled floor.
Sniffing, I did not dignify his comment with a response. I addressed Kay and Farzal. “Well, then. Divvy up attendants and send out the invitations. When do you suppose the influx will begin?”
“We will send messengers this very day,” Kay said quickly, appearing thankful that the subject had turned. He ignored Gwydion’s baleful glare. “I should guess the first few, from neighboring emirdoms, will begin entering Aquia as early as next week.”
“Very well then. Is that all the business you have to present before me?”
Once Kay nodded, I left the dais. I could feel Gwydion’s angry eyes on my back. I knew the business of ruling would not be so simple once settlers arrived and became the populations we so desperately needed. Whatever Gwydion said, he could not change the truth that I was Emira-Regent, and he would have to do more than talk down to me to quell that certainty. I was made of sterner stuff than could be quashed by a few bruises.