by Mira Zamin
***
A few hours later, after I had dozed off, I became vaguely aware of two voices in the room. Slowly floating to consciousness, I heard the conversation through a dreamlike haze.
“Milord, you told me to come immediately if the other lady arrived. Her servant has just notified me that she is staying at The Warring Hawk.” The voice was familiar, if hushed.
“Yes, yes. Thank you.” Gwydion’s voice. Even quieter. His hand brushed against my hair. An accidental graze? A deliberate gesture of affection? Apology?
Gwydion’s weight shifted off the bed and the door hissed shut. Again, I was asleep.
The next morning, Reyal’s jostling awoke me from the deadest of sleeps. “Your Highness, the Assembly meets in two hours!” she exclaimed, her straight dark hair brushing my face.
That announcement jump-started me awake and groggily, I peered around the dark room for Gwydion. His side of the bed felt cold. “Do you know where Lord Gwydion is?” I asked, meeting her excited brown eyes.
Shaking her head, Reyal hurriedly produced a white gown with an amethyst-encrusted bodice. Miri opened the curtains to let dull light pool in the room. The sky was grey and overcast and rain tumbled down in steady silver sheets as if the heavens mourned the passing of Ghalain’s queen.
“I let this out yesterday afternoon for your Highness.” Reyal shook the dress out and lay it carefully on the bed.
Touched by her work, I grinned my thanks. Hastily, I washed my face with lukewarm water from a small copper basin. The splashes solidified the division between sleeping and waking, pulling me down from drifting and firmly into the realm of the awake. Waves of panic quickly followed.
“Oh my Seasons!” I exclaimed, my voice muffled by the dress being pulled over my head. This was it. With Erina dead, the Assembly would dally no more. I would not have been surprised if by the end of the day, Ghalain had a new king or queen. The thought chilled me to my core.
“Milady, have some breakfast.” Miri entered the room, carrying a tray of warm bread, fresh fruit, steamed milk, and hot tea.
“Oh no, I could not!” I protested, too anxious to eat.
“You must maintain for strength for today,” Miri ordered firmly. “Just a little bit.”
Although the food was ash in my mouth, I swallowed the sliced plums and honeyed bread. To calm myself, I mentally listed the nobles whose support I had gained through the last few of passing conversations and promises. Lyra and Ferdas had been almost ascertained from the very beginning. Then, once Erina’s messengers had rung her support for me throughout Ghalain and Idrees had pledged his support. Three. A paltry three of the nine I could have gained and five I had hoped to. And of course there was Liem. I was partially convinced of his endorsement. And Kaladus stood in my debt, although I was not so foolish as to count him certainly in my camp. Five of ten, then, including myself. Listing my supporters was not quite the calming ritual I had hoped for. Downing a cup of warm spiced milk, I took a deep breath as Reyal laced my gown and attended to my make-up.
“Reyal, do you think I should be Queen?”
Reyal’s hands retreated from my face, and carefully, she placed the jars of powder onto the lacquered dresser. “Your Highness, I have only known you for your months here in Nyneveh. I cannot reliably grade your character.”
I frowned. “I do not deserve it, do I? I abandoned my training before I turned sixteen. I am barely eighteen. I am enceinte. No one in their right mind would support me for the throne. Lyra does so because we are family; Ferdas because he and I were childhood friends and Idrees…well, I am unsure why Idress threw his lot in with mine, but I don’t believe it’s because he thinks me capable of being a strong leader. Who know why he does anything? I wish Gwydion would be more of a help, if he must be with me in Nyneveh.”
“Are my ears ringing?”
Groaning slightly, I accepted Gwydion’s cordial kiss on my cheek. A slight iciness shivered down my spine.
“You look lovely, Selene. Very...regal.” He spun the word out with a satisfied caress. “Someone will be here soon to speak with you.”
Mystified, I raised an eyebrow. “Who?”
Smiling his secretive smile, he moved past me and rummaged through my dresser. He withdrew the beige velvet case which housed the laurel coronet of an Aquian emira: an heiress’s headpiece, not that of the ruler. This had belonged to Ceara. That I had left with my mother in her room. Removing it gingerly from the box, he held it aloft so that the small diamonds embedded in the laurels captured the watery light before placing it on my head.
My eye twitched.
There was a knock on the door. For a brief moment, most oddly, I was confronted by the specter of my father. It was as if I were seeing him out of the corner of my eye, a memory of a memory. A feeling in my chest, warm and cold all at once, welled and the scent of cardamom and iron and ink that I associated with him overwhelmed me. As soon I was taken by memory, it puffed out of existence, as if blown away by a breeze. I did not know what triggered that memory but for the briefest of moments, I was with my father again. I drew heart. “Reyal, escort our guest in.”
Reyal opened the door. Out from behind her stepped Fyodor of Murban. Fyodor of Murban whose army was second only to Chandon’s, whose emirdom was said to run with streams of gold. My breath stopped; I could hardly dare hope.
“Your Highness,” he said with a bow. A white flash of teeth glimmered from beneath his dark beard, but he emanated a sense of gravity, as if this decision had not come easily but in the end, it was what he figured to be best for Ghalain. At least, that was what I hoped.
Bending my knee in graceful obeisance, I met his coal-black eyes with more confidence than I felt. “Emir Fyodor,” I said, stepping towards him, arms outspread. “This is a surprise. Can my maid bring you something to drink? We have some very fine wine brought by my husband from Aquia. A vintage from the time of my great-grandfather.”
Fyodor cleared his throat, straightening his dove grey coat. His eyes were vague, but his voice firm. “I thank you for your kind offer, milady, but I am afraid there is no time. The Assembly shall commence soon. My business with you is brief—but of some importance. Emira Selene, I have come to offer you my support for the throne of Ghalain.”
Within, it felt as if everything had frozen. As if my lungs had stopped moving, my heart had halted its beating, my blood ceased its flowing. Time had momentarily stopped, caught like a flitting insect in amber. But my mind buzzed furiously. Six of ten. A majority. I could sing. Suddenly, my sorrow at Erina’s death, my general and abiding irritation with Gwydion, the heaviness of the curse, were vague, cloudy outlines, dimming in the brilliance of the possibilities of the future. I grinned.
“Emir Fyodor, I thank you for your support. Now, will you accompany me to the Council?”
Chapter Twenty