by R. J. Price
“She serves the throne, she has rank,” Ervam said. “You have title, which can be stripped away, I should probably remind you, and I think the servants,”—he motioned to the increasingly angry group on the left—“would beg to say differently. Did you, or did you not order Telm attacked?”
“I did, she deserved it.”
Ervam backhanded the lady. Those gathered gasped.
“Father,” Jer protested.
“Ervam,” Aren muttered, then raised her voice slightly. “Don’t you think this is a matter that the one who sits the throne should see to?”
“But she deserved it,” Ervam protested.
Telm snorted, trying not to laugh, which caused her to groan in pain as her expression changed.
“Lord Ervam, unless you plan to stand as protector to the servants, you’ve no place interrupting,” Aren said, taking her seat.
“Fine, I appeal to the court to stand in the protective interests of the servants at court,” Ervam said. “Something that Telm can’t do because she is head of house and it’s improper for her to hit people.”
“I never said it was improper for me to hit people,” Telm protested.
“Ranks,” he muttered, standing to raise his voice. “Court will be dismissed while ranks sort this out.”
“I’m not a rank!” the lady protested, then motioned to the trainer. “He’s not a rank!”
“He is,” Jer said. “Perhaps I should introduce the court to him formally. This is Ervam Marilton, mate to Mirmae Hue, father to Av Marilton and Jer Hue, oh, and Mie Marilton back there,” he motioned to Mie. “Youngest brother of the baron of the northern wastes, uncle to the high lord of the north. Trainer. His first instinct when he sees someone breaking a rule is quick discipline no matter who is supposed to be in charge of the situation. Court dismissed. Av, remain behind, please.”
The court left. When only the ranks remained, he growled out, an annoyed, frustrated sound.
“You are not master,” he said to his father. “You have no title on palace grounds and being the only rank of yourself within palace lands does not give you the right to... To... That word wherein you take the power from the throne and give it to yourself. You know the one I mean.”
“Vocabulary,” Ervam responded. “Jer, you need to ensure you know what you want to say, at all times.”
Av approached them. “I think it’s a good idea to have a representative stand in court for the servants.”
“That’s what Telm does!” he protested.
“It’s what Telm is supposed to do,” Ervam murmured.
“It’s what I do,” Telm said. “Excuse me for not being able to take on three grown men, half my age and twice my size without magic of my own.”
“Use the magic of the throne,” Ervam said. “You are capable of tapping into it.”
“The last time I did that Mirmae nearly bled out,” Telm retorted. “I am not about to test the strength of the one who sits the throne in a way that may kill her.”
“That doesn’t change the fact,” he said, raising his voice above them all, “that you can’t just march into the throne room and strike a lady because you don’t like what she’s saying.”
“You can’t tell me you didn’t want to do just that,” Ervam responded, turning his full attention to Jer. “Why? Why were there servants and lords present in the same court? You can’t do that. You can’t call a court for every little thing that needs to be dealt with. These matters are disciplinary and need to be dealt with as such. Don’t waste our time, and yours, with such items.”
“She hired men to attack me,” Telm said. “It was merely a court to prevent further incidents, not as standard procedure. As a new ruler, Aren needs to assert herself over the court and make certain everyone knows why this lady is shunned. While we bring about the honour rules.”
“Honour?” Ervam asked. “Honour requires these matters be dealt with behind closed doors, in such a way it is never done again. Honour does not dictate that you chastise the cousin of the western high lord before the court for something as petty as hiring mercenaries.”
“Honour would require her to tell everyone why she was being punished,” Telm said sternly. “She wouldn’t do that. Just as the lord I disciplined last night, without bringing it before the court, is lying as to where he received said wound and why the healers will not see to it.”
“Father, the people of the palace are used to Em’s way of doing things,” Av said calmly, as if he were trying to soothe everyone present. “I’m sure honour would dictate we give them fair warning, that we teach them our ways rather than assume they know.”
“Still doesn’t give him the right,” he said.
Av turned to him. “Jer, Father is a trainer, as you said. His rank responds immediately to the breaking of laws, rules, traditions, and honour, and that whole jumbled mess we try to keep track of. He was doing what he was created to do.”
Years of being master had given Av an odd ability to calm him. Jer watched his father relax slightly.
The jumbled mess Av referred to was thanks to the lessons Jer had been trying to give his brother. To teach them both about honour, which was a term that tried to explain every interaction that happened in their world.
Rules had been created for interacting with blood, family, and bloodlines in public or private. Changing a rule took time and careful planning, but was possible. One could have blood, meaning direct relatives, as well as family, those one felt are closer than relatives, in the same group. This could cause conflicting rules, but a rule was a fluid thing, which could forgive breaking one in order to honour another.
Laws were created to give lords and masters the ability to control their subjects between generations. Only a master or lord could change laws unless a command was handed down from the throne.
Commands were carried out across palace lands and came from the one who sat the throne. Some commands could be issued by the queen, but some, such as taxation, had to be passed before the court. The court could pass commands on to the one who sat the throne to dictate how she lived or ruled, but it required a majority to unanimous vote, depending on the command.
Tradition was simply what had been done for generations. It dictated how ceremonies were performed, when to honour the dead, and how.
All these arose from the attempt to label honour. There were books, entire libraries, filled with honour. Some remained true despite centuries passing; some had changed.
Honour said to take the life of the one who sat the throne when it began to kill her slowly. Tradition dictated a queen rule until the time of her natural death.
Ervam looked to Aren, causing Jer's attention to turn to the woman. She sat on the throne still, peering down at Ervam, brown eyes holding amusement as she watched them bicker over the topic. Her mind was already made up, and nothing they said was going to change her decision.
Her word was the final word, but did she know that?
“Our instincts tell us to stab people before we ask questions, but as you pointed out to me this morning, Aren has a problem with that,” he said, turning to Av to try to direct attention back to the matter at hand.
“No, she has a problem with us torturing people,” Av responded. “As she made clear by her support to Telm. She has no problem with stabbing as long as there’s a reason behind it that makes sense.”
“My instinct says I should stab you,” he growled. “However, I don’t do it because that would be inciting violence. Just as one should watch when and where one disciplines a lady.”
“My point exactly,” Ervam said. “Disciplining a lady before court is not the correct way to go about it, yet when I told you that, you say it is Aren’s place to do so, that you should call a court for such a foolish matter. Instead you attempt to chastise me for doing what I’m attempting to explain to you is wrong, yet you still see no wrong in your own doings.”
“It was to make a point,” Telm protested.
Aren stood. She cleared
her throat and waited for each of them to turn to her.
“I sit the throne,” Aren said, making eye contact with each of them. “If you insist I rule while sitting the throne, I will do so my way. If that means I call the court for what you think is a foolish reason, then so be it. If you insist on being a snot bag about my calling court to chastise someone who attacked my—not yours, Ervam, or yours, Jer, but my—head of house, then I will proceed to call court to decide on what to eat tonight and you will stand in attendance. If you complain about it, you will find yourself standing in another court, to decide what I should wear the next morning. My blue dress? Or… my blue dress?”
“And what would you like done about the lady?” Ervam asked.
“I want a letter sent to her father, or brother, or mother—whoever leads her bloodline, and one sent to her cousin of a high lord. I want these letters to explain what she has done and I want the one to her blood to inform them to come retrieve their daughter. Not the servant; send her to the high lord.”
“Why?” Av asked.
“I spent six months as guardian to Mar,” Aren said. “No doubt Telm could tell you something similar, but when a servant works so long with a lady, she develops a bond with her employer. Sending the lady home is one thing, taking her good friend from her will make a point that few ladies will forget. Few servants as well, because I don’t care what the high lord does to the servant. As long as he doesn’t send her back to the lady.”
Aren left without telling them what she was doing. Jer and Av stared after her, mouths hanging open.
“Creative,” Ervam said.
“The servants will riot, you can’t give a person away,” Av said.
“She’s not giving, she’s sending,” Ervam responded. “Black-listed here, the servant will have no choice but go. Has the high lord of the west changed in the last ten years?”
“No, it’s the same high lord,” he said.
“Then he will laugh and send his thanks back,” Ervam said. “Might even visit. He’ll appreciate Aren’s courage.”
“And if he finds it insulting?” he asked.
“He may, but he’ll still appreciate the courage of the palace to question his bloodline. Who knows, he might even do something about it.”
Chapter Nine
They walked into the palace, their heads held high. Para tried not to make eye contact with the servants, who she felt were judging her, and focused instead on the lords and ladies. Most were too young to recall her, and the few who were old enough pretended she didn’t exist. They greeted her mate, Cerlot, by his bloodline instead of his mated name. He corrected each politely and introduced them to Para.
Hearing their bloodline made the lords and ladies blanch. They took their leave as soon as they could, fleeing without explaining whatever was the matter.
“What has she done?” Cerlot muttered in disgust.
“Lady Em was not specific in her letter to me,” Para responded quickly. “Only that if we did not attend court, she would strip us of title and burn the vineyard to the ground.”
When the missive came from Em, Para expected an invitation to the mating of Mar, Em's daughter. Instead she had been threatened with terrible retribution.
The only reason Aren had been sent to court was because Anue begged to be finished at court, as was tradition, and the younger could not be sent if the older did not attend. Aren was relatively harmless. Certainly, the girl was sullen, rude, stupid, plain, and overall useless, but what could she have possibly done at court to enrage Em?
There was no other reason they could have been summoned, not with the contents of the missive. Aren had done something, likely something illegal.
Perhaps she had slept with Jer.
That might actually work in their favour, most especially if the girl happened to get a child by Jer.
“This is your fault for naming her Aren,” Cerlot hissed back.
“My fault?” Para asked. “Excuse me for wishful thinking. Pairs blessed by the throne are more likely to have ranks amongst their children. You spoiled her. Spare the rod, spoil the child.”
“I spared her? She was a daughter. You are responsible for them, not me.”
Para had done what she could to teach Aren right from wrong. Was it her fault the girl didn't listen? Some children were simply born slower than others, some were too stupid to tell black from white. Aren was one such child. She would hide away for days on end in the attics and had followed the seamstress around for almost a year before Para had finally given in and agreed to send Aren to court.
For two reasons, one being that Anue wanted to attend when she came of age. The other was to simply be rid of the sullen child. Para had been relieved the morning after Aren left, as if a fog lifted on the estate.
“Can I help you,” said a woman in serving grey, not asked. There was a distinct tone to the woman’s voice that implied she would never ask someone if she could help.
Her face was a mass of bruises, but she seemed not to notice as she stared at Cerlot. Those icy blue eyes flickered to Para and finally she recognized the woman who had once been the beauty of court.
“Lady Telm, still serving?” Para asked.
“Where else would I be, Lady Para?” Telm asked smoothly. “Aren inherited your eyes, I see. But not that beak you call a nose. She received that from your mate here.” The woman shifted her attention to Cerlot. “Though on you, it makes you look like a babe.”
Telm had never liked Para, proclaiming her a disgrace from the moment the two met. The servant had never hidden her disdain and the throne simply allowed her to do as she pleased, out of some twisted sense of debt. To do otherwise was to invite the master's anger and Ervam, if he was still master, would not allow Telm to suffer under a lady.
While Para should have been able to return such cruel words with some of her own, she remained silent because that was what was expected of a commoner who spoke to a queen.
“Can you take us to our daughter?” Cerlot asked, taking the hint from Para to treat the woman as her rank demanded she be treated.
“No,” Telm said bluntly, frowning at them. “What are you two doing here? Our missive can’t have reached you by now.”
“Which missive?” Cerlot asked.
“Lady Em sent a missive about six days ago,” Para said. “She demanded we attend court.”
Telm’s face took on a pinched look. “The one who sits the throne has called court, to make a few announcements to the lords and ladies. I suppose it is my duty to take you to the throne room as you will be required to acknowledge the announcements. This way.”
Frowning at one another, Para and Cerlot followed Telm through the palace. Outside the throne room guards were positioned, who stared openly at Para and Cerlot, and at Cerlot's coat. The coat was all that was left of the vineyard's wealth, a dark—deep blue that dye masters could no longer recreate. He had worn it in order to force Em to recognize the history between the vineyard and the palace in the hopes of sparing their land of Em's wrath.
Telm pushed open the doors and stepped into the throne room. Para shot Cerlot a scathing look, a reminder to behave, before she stepped through.
“What’s more,” a young voice raised above the protesting lords and ladies was saying, “any matings arranged by this throne in the past decade may present case for dismissal based on untrue pairings and possible forced prostitution.”
Cerlot’s hand took hold of Para’s arm and gripped tight, fingers digging into her flesh painfully. Para glowered at Cerlot, shaking off his hand. The simpering fool had always been a bit too soft for her. Cerlot was staring wide-eyed at the throne, his hand shaking as he pointed.
Para turned her glare to the throne and was met by a near mirror image of the look. Aren stood before the throne, back straight, hands clenched at her sides as she glowered across the throne room. Para looked beyond Aren, to the empty throne, then to Jer, sitting beside the throne.
His features darkened when he spotted them. St
anding, Jer set his weight, preparing for a fight.
Telm huffed out an annoyed breath and walked towards the throne. “To the court I am obliged to present Lady Para Argnern and her mate, Lord Cerlot Argnern,” she said. “Mother and father to Lady Aren Argnern,”—Telm turned back to Para and made that pinched face again—“Queen who sits the throne.”
“But she doesn’t have rank,” Para managed to get out, her own breath strangling her.
Her mind raced with the possibilities, with plans for the future. It skipped back over Aren’s childhood and wondered what sort of a creature they raised. How long could Aren hold the throne? Para, her own mother, hadn’t realized Aren was ranked. The less obvious one was, the weaker they were. Did they have enough time?
Anger and magic filled the throne room. Hatred danced across Aren’s face for only a moment before it all vanished and that stupid child of theirs looked down at them. Aren completely locked herself away as she came down the few steps. Jer followed close behind her, walking down the aisle and met them where they stood, rooted to the spot.
“Why are you here?” Aren asked.
“Tradition dictates—“ Cerlot said, catching up with the situation.
No, this was much worse than raising a weak rank. Aren had strength, she had magic and all the rage that long-lived queens were said to have. That anger, all the darkness in Aren was directed right then at Para and Cerlot, at her own parents.
What was the saying? Dark spirits have mercy on the poor fool stupid enough to enrage the throne.
“Lady Em sent a missive about six days ago, demanding we attend court, or she’d strip us of title and burn our vineyard.” Para chose the truth over forcing tradition on Aren. Tradition could not be ignored. “Whatever happened to Lady Em?” Para peered around Aren, to Jer.
“She died,” Jer said without explanation. “Her body rests in the front gardens until tomorrow morning, when Lord Av will take her to her pyre and watch over her as she is sent to the spirits. We put off by a day in the hope that Lady Mar, her daughter, might have felt her death and returned. Also, to give her ladies a proper time to grieve over her body.”