Sit Pretty

by R. J. Price

  Para curtsied to the barons. “My name is Para Argnern, mate of Cerlot who holds the Bilgern Vineyard just to the south of the palace. I am mother to Aren, queen who sits the throne. As she is un-mated, I have taken the place of head of house.”

  “That was stupid,” three of the barons muttered as one.

  Para turned to the southern baron, Merkat, who hadn't spoken. The man sighed heavily and shook his head.

  “Para, that daughter of yours hated you before you removed Telm from head of house. But we can discuss your foolishness in private. Cousins, Para here knows why I've come, why I've brought my son. I'd like to announce now, my intention of arranging a mating between my son here and the single Lady Aren. A treaty will be arranged.”

  “Then why did you call us?” the northern baron asked.

  “I thought the north and east should attend the treaty, in case you wanted to re-negotiate anything from your own,” Merkat said quietly. “I had hoped the west might be swayed and simply because, gentlemen. I've met the Lady Aren and thought, perhaps, you would want to meet the woman you will be dealing with face to face.”

  “Queens come,” the western baron muttered.

  “And queens go,” the eastern baron finished.

  The northern baron growled. “Em still sat the throne when I received your message. What's so special about another short-lived queen? She'll be dead in a year.”

  “Not this one, boys.” Merkat pointed up as cool air seemed to fill the hall. “Not this one.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  The next morning Aren was dragged out of bed, even though she was exhausted, prodded into a bath, even though she had washed just the day before, and manhandled into a dress, protesting all the while. When she had gotten angry with her mother, something inside her head snapped, she heard the crack. Jer claimed to have heard nothing, Telm told her that it was probably nothing to worry about, and both suddenly insisted Aren get into bed for a nap.

  Next thing Aren knew, she was being dragged back out.

  “Going to public breakfast, trust me on this,” Telm said quickly. “Hide yourself the way you used to, do as best you can.”

  Aren did as she was bid while Telm took a step back and inspected her carefully. With a nod, Telm tugged Aren to the dining hall, explaining that she couldn't go to breakfast with Aren because she had far too much to do, and she should just laugh and be polite and act naturally and above all?

  Don't bite anyone.

  On the last note Aren was shoved, literally, into the dining hall. She stumbled over her own feet and pulled herself upright only to find no one noticed she was there. Obviously she had cloaked herself well enough. Aren walked past lords and ladies who seemed not to see her, and selected a seat at the head table.

  The seat Aren should have taken, the one Em used to sit and watch over the diners from, was occupied by Jer. Who nodded to her slightly, then looked pointedly at the men on either side of him. Frowning at Jer, Aren helped herself only to the foods she wanted to eat, ignoring those she knew would have been better for her. Sweets and fruit, a cup of strong tea. Jer gave her a scowl in response, but made no attempt to call her on her chosen meal.

  Mar stepped up beside Aren, then took the seat. Suddenly conversation at the table stopped, the men on either side of Jer focused on Mar.

  “This must be Lady Aren,” said a man who looked a good deal like Ervam.

  Aren choked on a sweet pie, coughing pastry across the table. The only one who seemed to notice her choking was the man directly across from her. As the man wiped pastry off his face, smiling all the while, Aren recognized him as Baron Merkat, from the south.

  “How did you get here so fast?” Aren hissed at him.

  Merkat placed a finger over his lips, a smile growing as he motioned with his head to the conversation happening beside them.

  “Lady Mar,” Jer said, having introduced Mar to the men already, “this is Baron Er Marilton of the north, his son and heir, Url, high lord of the north. To Url's left is Baron Gamen Hue of the east, a distant relative of mine. To my right is Baron Van Tolter of the west and to his right is Baron Merkat Emmeret of the south, with his son Laeder.”

  The northern baron lived almost a month away; Aren was certain that was what her tutor once told her. If he rode out just with his son, changing horses at each village, he may have made it in ten days. The baron of the west lived twenty days away, and the baron of the east had a short ocean voyage before a ten-day land journey.

  Aren felt a distinctly annoying tingle down her back.

  She didn't like not knowing why something was happening.

  “How do you do?” Mar said to the other side of the table, before she focused on Jer. “Why are the barons here and why are they asking for Aren?”

  “I don't know,” Jer said. “I suppose that is a discussion for the court, as there will obviously be in session today.”

  “Truly? I'd like to make an appeal to the court,” Mar said to Jer, eating a piece of bacon calmly.

  “Why?” Aren asked Mar, drawing the eyes of the other barons finally.

  “I suppose,” Mar said venomously, “that's a conversation for me to have with the court.”

  “Perhaps the court would be more willing to vote in your favour, if you told it ahead of time what you plan to do,” Aren said to Mar, wondering if Mar was going to ask for her mating with Perlon to be voided.

  “Maybe the court should mind its own business,” Mar said back.

  “Ladies, let's not fight right now, shall we?” Jer said calmly. “Mar, do you have an appeal to the court, or to the throne?”

  “To the court,” Mar said, stuffing the last of the bacon into her mouth so that she couldn't answer Aren's protested question.

  Jer looked at Aren. “Then we will simply have to wait until court is in session to find out, now won't we?”

  “Will Lady Aren be attending breakfast?” Er, baron of the north asked.

  Aren recalled, dimly something Ervam had said about the barons of the north. She thought it had to do with his having rank, yet the man seemed not to notice her at all. Ervam had known right away, so why suddenly did someone from the north not recognize her? Glancing to Url, Er's son, Aren found the man staring at her. Not in a lewd fashion, but more of a curious one.

  “Tell me lady, are you claimed?” Url asked, still looking at her.

  “Claimed?” Aren asked.

  “Has a warrior laid his claim on you?”

  Aren wondered how Av would respond to such a question. Instead she licked her lips, in case she had crumbs on them, and said. “Why ever would you ask such a question?”

  “You're eating a terrible breakfast,” Url said, looking to her plate, then meeting her eyes slowly. “Either you're indulging, because you can't have a sweet tooth with how thin you are, or you're challenging the one who claimed you. I'm just wondering who it is? Perhaps I've heard stories of this warrior.”

  “Lord Av,” Aren said, sitting back as she watched Er's head snap around. “He is the one who claimed me, though the court doesn't recognize the claim. Does that suit you?”

  “Cousin Av?” Url chortled. “I'll challenge him and take you for myself.”

  “You'll do no such thing,” Aren responded with such vehemence that all conversation at the table came to a sudden halt.

  “As you say, lady.” Url bent his head. “I did not mean to offend.”

  Aren turned her attention to her plate and angrily dumped eggs and meat onto it. Then she took a roll of bread and bit into it as Url smiled at her. She didn't want anyone challenging Av simply because she had decided to eat a poor breakfast.

  Jer hid a smile behind a cup of tea.

  “What are you grinning at?” Aren demanded of Jer. “He was about to challenge your brother and you just sit there like a lump.”

  “Don't mistake this for sitting aside,” Jer responded. “But, let's be fair. I'd stand by Av and against any opponent, even yourself, but I will not stand by Av's side
if cousin Url is the challenger. He comes from a long line of warriors.”

  “A very long line,” Er said. “Our people may have a long history, but my bloodline has a longer one, is how my father used to put it to us. Url's never lost a challenge. And he's looking to mate, hence his question of you, lady. What about…” Er turned his attention to Mar suddenly, “you, dear lady, has a warrior claimed you?”

  “I am mated,” Mar said.

  “No ring?” Url asked, looking over the table.

  Aren looked at the hands of the barons. Each wore a ring on the ring finger, marking them as mated. She frowned, having never seen such a thing before.

  “No one at court wears rings,” Jer said to the barons. “That way if a man slaps another man, he has only his own strength to back him, not the aid of a piece of metal to cause more damage. Ladies will wear the frilly things their lovers gift them, but that tends to be all.”

  “Does Lady Aren wear a ring?” Url asked Jer. “I thought it was tradition for the pair who sat the throne to wear them.”

  “Lady Aren is not yet mated,” Jer responded. “Thus she does not wear a ring, yet. She may choose to take up the tradition. It would make it easier for outsiders to recognize her. It would keep them from doing something stupid.”

  “Such as?” Merkat asked.

  “Such as mistaking her for a servant,” Jer said, looking pointedly at Aren's dress.

  Serving grey was what Aren was wearing, because that was all she had for the moment. The dress had been provided as a temporary covering, in case Aren wanted to sneak about the palace. Yet despite Jer's words the barons did not seem to put the two ideas together and figure out who she was.

  Aren ate a little.

  “Where is Av?” she asked Jer.

  “Napping,” Jer said. “Or trying to. Hopefully he does. If you thought you were bad without sleep...” Jer trailed off with a chuckle.

  “If I thought I was bad, what?” Aren asked.

  “Av's worse,” Jer said. “Even Av knows he's cranky, but that doesn't stop him from doing as he feels he should.”

  Aren finished the last of the food on her plate. “Ah, well, I should go help my lady get ready for court. Excuse me.”

  She stood and left the dining hall. Just outside, Telm was waiting for her. Making a face at the older woman, Aren kept walking. She understood why she had to go to the dining hall, but it would have been a good deal more polite of Telm to explain why before shoving her.

  “Jer introduced them as barons of the directions,” Aren said.

  Telm nodded. “To call it the northern wastes is an insult and how those in the palace call to the other lands. In reality the lands are thriving. The north is said to have a weak economy, but only because they rarely deal in coin or credit.”

  “Have you seen the tailor?” Aren asked. “I need to wear something besides this to court.”

  “Come along, hopefully he's delivered that dress as he said he would,” Telm said, leading Aren quickly to her rooms.

  As they approached the rooms, the tailor stepped up to the door, a package in hand. He smiled at Aren and handed the package to Telm before he rushed off.

  Aren frowned after him.

  She opened the door to her rooms and they stepped in. Taking the dress from Telm, Aren moved behind the changing screen and switched dresses.

  It was one of the ones Aren said she hadn't minded, but had been cut too low. The dress had been taken in and hemmed to fit her. Across the low cut was a piece of delicate lace, patterned with little flowers. It covered and yet revealed what Aren wanted hidden, a compromise while the tailor created Aren dresses that suited her tastes.

  Stepping out from behind the screen, Aren presented herself to Telm who looked her over and gave an approving nod. “He does good work, quick too. What do you think?”

  “The fabric is far too rich, this lace is...” Aren motioned down and felt her face heat. “The barons will be there today. They'll think I'm like the other ladies. No, I don't like it. The fabric should be plainer. It's one thing to have a nice dress to attend balls in, but the only reason my other dress is so rich is because I cut it down.”

  “It is gorgeous, and looks good on you,” Telm said in defence of the tailor. “He has a good eye and made the perfect choice. Out of the dresses that almost fit you, this one complimented you the best.”

  “I don't like it,” Aren grumbled. “Where are my slippers?”

  “Here.” Telm brought the slippers out of the wardrobe. She waited quietly as Aren slipped them on. “You should take to the fashion of the boots, allow the others to hear you coming, and demand they pay attention to you.”

  “No, this is better,” Aren muttered to herself. “It's far beyond the time the court be purged. People will hide what they are if they hear me coming. What about my hair? Up in a braid again?”

  “Down, just like that, just as they saw it this morning,” Telm said, bringing out a brush. “Let me give it a brush, then we'll be on our way. The rest of the court is gathering, this will give them time to get settled before you enter the throne room.”

  Aren sat through her hair being brushed, listened to Telm lecture her on how to treat the barons. None of the lecture stuck. It seemed the moment Telm spoke, the words were gone once more. Aren had only herself to rely on, and that nagging feeling that the throne was pulling her attention away on purpose.

  “And whatever happens? Don't bite anyone.”

  “I didn't bite anyone at breakfast,” Aren protested. “Though if Url tries to challenge Av, I will bite him. Dares try to hurt what is mine.”

  Telm stiffened. “I'm sorry, but what did you just say?”

  “Av is mine,” Aren asserted. “No two-bit son of a baron is going to change that. How dare he ask me in such a manner? As if my connection to Av is so loose that I could simply walk away from him? Really, what was his intention, asking such a thing at the breakfast table?”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Url sat beside his father, waiting for the queen to come to court. He had a nagging suspicion he knew who Aren was, but hadn't said anything to his father for fear of being wrong. His father had missed her because despite being ranked, the young woman was wearing serving grey.

  The barons hadn't questioned the young woman, assuming she was Mar's handmaid, or a close friend attending breakfast while her mistress took her time walking to the dining hall.

  Jer entered the throne room and stopped before the seats that had been provided for the barons. He cleared his throat quietly and asked if they would please stand for Aren, who hadn't any idea who the barons were in relation to the throne.

  For the barons, standing as the queen entered was a strange request. They still stood, understanding there would be plenty of time to rage against Jer for not teaching Aren about her post. She was new and Jer was trying to avoid challenging her before thoroughly testing the boundaries of her temper.

  Standing at the bottom of the steps, Aren's father turned to the doors. Acting as steward was a terrible idea. The man knew nothing of the position he was supposed to be holding. He raised his voice, announcing Aren.

  The court turned to the door as one and Url glanced at Aren, stepping into the throne room, for only a moment before he turned to take in the shocked and startled faces of the barons. Merkat did not look surprised, though he had mentioned that he had met the girl. Despite that, he had given them no warning as to who Aren was.

  The young woman who had been dressed in serving grey and appeared weak at breakfast was now flooding the throne room with her magic. Not on purpose, simply by letting loose her control and trying to be seen as the rank she had been born to. The dress she wore was out of place with the style worn by other ladies at court. She made no sound as she drifted down the length of the throne room and took her seat. What stood out the most was the lace covering her bosom. The dress had the same low cut of the other ladies at court, yet Aren hid what other men were used to seeing.

  Obviously
the dress had been altered to fit her, to make do until a proper dress could be made. Aren looked thoroughly uncomfortable as she sat, looking over the court.

  “What is the first order of business?” she asked Jer, ignoring the barons.

  She should have greeted them, welcomed them to her court. This would give them the ability to interject during appeals, and was a sign of respect on her part. Url looked to the door and found Telm standing there, a pointedly annoyed look on her face. Obviously the old head of house had done her duty, had explained to the young woman what her duties were, but either it hadn't lasted in Aren's mind, or the throne was being disrespectful.

  “I have an appeal,” Mar said, stepping out of the ladies and into the aisle.

  Url had recognized her as blood the moment he laid eyes on her. Glancing up at Jer, he wondered why the man hadn't introduced Mar as his daughter.

  “Which is?” Aren snapped.

  Did the two of them not get along? Was there something to the rumour that ones like them fought at the palace? Or was Aren simply angry because she suspected she knew what Mar wanted, and didn't want to grant it?

  “I appeal to the court as to the whereabouts of my father,” Mar said sternly to Aren. “A fact I know the throne knows, that you know, Lady Aren, and have kept from me!”

  The anger of the two queens clashed between them, but the magic created did not attempt to attack one or the other. Aren and Mar respected one another and were angry. This would pass, and was nothing more than fleeting emotions.

  “I thought, perhaps you would prefer to hear it from him,” Aren said. “That he might prefer to be the one who told you.”

  “So you dangle it before me?” Mar shouted.

  Url couldn't believe the magic between the two of them. He looked over the court, who seemed not to notice. They were acting as if they couldn't see the crackle. Turning to his father, he found the hand already raised to keep him silent. Er wanted to see where this went, and was watching the court with rapt attention.