by R. J. Price
“He won't train me,” Aren muttered.
“Who told you about our stubbornness?” Mar asked, moving away from the topic of Av. “Doesn't sound like something you'd say.”
“Telm,” Aren said.
“Ah, makes sense,” Mar said with a nod, then shook her finger at Aren. “That doesn't change my point.”
“I am bound to Laeder,” Aren said through gritted teeth. “If I elope with Av, which I would only be able to do because he was born to the north, Telm will take his fun bits. By palace law we cannot elope because we would need the agreement of our parents. My mother isn't exactly going to be willing.”
“Oh,” Mar said, sounding surprised. The younger woman frowned suddenly. “Telm's threat hasn't changed since this whole arranged engagement?”
“No,” Aren said.
The frown deepened. Mar's lips pressed tightly together.
“What?” she asked.
“Nothing,” Mar said, sounding annoyed once more. “I need to speak with Telm.”
“About?” she asked.
“Nothing that you should be asking about,” was the quick response. “Unless you want to admit to the men that you allowed two queens to talk to one another when the topic would clearly lead to a fight.”
Aren shook her head quickly. “No, I have no idea what you're about to do. Look, the doors you were leading me to. Why don't we go through and see what it was you brought me to see?”
Mar opened the doors and led Aren in. The servants pulled to a sudden stop over tables where they were polishing silverware.
The tables were already set up, each with an embroidered table cloth atop them. In the middle of each table sat a little glass platform. Atop the platforms stood miniature trees, bare branches reaching upward. A cart sat to one side with decorative plates stacked high.
Aren walked to the nearest table and set a finger on the tree, tracing the etched trunk. Cold metal against her finger, black as could be. Aren frowned at the black, at the shade of it. She turned to Mar, who walked up beside her and inspected the tree.
“Is this…” Aren started.
“Same as that?” Mar asked, meaning the same as the true throne room. “Yes, it is.”
“From the artefact room,” a servant offered, approaching them slowly. “There are many such objects in the room. Our people have a long history and throughout that history have had times of enlightenment where such objects could be created. The coin master explained to us as he brought out each one.”
“Explained what?” Aren asked.
“How to make them,” the servant said with a nod. “It is a rule about the artefact rooms. The knowledge of how to make the item is kept with it and when it's withdrawn, someone is told how to do it, in the hopes that they understand the instructions and can do it again.” She motioned to the black tree. “This almost makes sense. He said magic is layered with rock and folded in with more magic. The process is repeated until the rock changes to metal. Through intense emotion, such as the anger of a queen, the maker can then alter the shape of the metal into whatever form he pleases, as long as he has a clear image inside his head.”
“I don't…” Mar said with a start. “That doesn't make sense. Fold magic into rock?”
“Like butter,” Aren said quietly. “Into flour to make pastry.” The only reason Aren made the connection between the two was because of Telm's explanation in the throne room. Mar may have forgotten, unable to keep an explanation that was linked to an action she had never performed.
“That's what I thought,” the servant said with a smile and a nod. “Though, I don't have magic to try such a thing. And I'm not certain the emotions I feel are the same as the anger of a queen. A queen's anger is a good deal stronger than that of a commoner.”
“Possibly true,” Aren murmured.
There were a hundred or more trees sitting on tables arranged around the dance floor. Each one must have taken years to create.
“The part I don't understand are the leaves,” the servant said. “We were clearly told these trees have leaves, but as you can see, they're bare. Or are they? Maybe only ranks can see the leaves?”
She shook her head. “No, they are bare. How are the leaves attached? There are no wires, no slots, just a tree.”
“I don't know,” the servant said.
“He didn't tell you?” she asked.
“He said that was the full process of completing a tree, as the paperwork describes,” the servant said helplessly.
Aren made a sound and looked around her.
Around the edges of the platform the musicians would play from were little lights. Aren approached the platform and touched one of the lights. As she did so each turned a different shade of blue. She removed her hand and turned to the servant, who had followed her over.
“This is simply a string of agates,” the servant said, hand running over the strand. “Wired into a strand. Normally agates only alight around certain types of magic users, or when strong emotions are felt by one of rank. These ones, through generations of use, light whenever one sits the throne and the strand is within the bounds of the queen's bubble of magic. Simple, but beautiful.”
“Why blue?” Aren asked, venturing a second touch to the strand.
“No idea,” the servant responded.
The lights in the room altered, changing to blue so vibrant that Aren thought, for a moment, she was looking up at the sky. Removing her hand from the strand, Aren watched everything return to normal. Aren turned to Mar, who was staring up at the lights.
“Stop that!” Her mother marched across the dance floor towards her. “Stop wasting your magic showing off. That is not for you to use, it is for the benefit of the common people.”
“It is mine, to use as I see fit,” Aren said to her mother.
“She isn't using magic,” the servant protested.
“You!” Her mother spun on the servant. “How many times must I dismiss you before you are finally gone from the palace?”
“Try again tomorrow,” the servant retorted, motioning to Aren. “She wasn't using magic.”
“The lights use magic, therefore touching them, changing the colour, uses magic,” Para said sternly, barely restraining herself from shouting. “Must I spell it out for you?”
“There's a difference between using magic, and altering the state of pliable substances,” the servant responded in the same tone and volume. “You would do well to remember, Lady Para, that all you have above me is title. Lady Aren says title does not mean you can bully me.”
“How dare you! I want you gone! Arrest her, Aren, for trespassing. She has been dismissed multiple times!”
Aren almost rolled her eyes. Instead she sighed loudly.
“In what way do you believe that this is going to end well for you?” Aren asked. Turning to the servant she said. “She's dismissed you, you're irritating her, which causes her to irritate me with that voice of hers.”
“I am your mother!”
“That one, that one there,” Aren said, jabbing a finger at her mother without turning from the servant. “However, I like your stubbornness and the fact you're not afraid to stand up to title. Can you stand against a rank as well?”
“I've never had to, under your rule,” the servant responded.
“What is your name?” Aren asked.
The servant curtseyed. “Wena Amerdae. I've served the palace for three years, Lady Aren.”
Considering Wena, Aren opened her senses and looked the servant over. She seemed appropriate, mostly harmless, and competent.
“Report to Lady Telm,” Aren said. “I am in need of a handmaid. Lady Telm can only serve until I am mated. You have until then to learn everything she knows and prove yourself capable. If you prove incapable, you will be looking for other work.”
“Yes, Lady Aren,” Wena said with a curtsey.
She watched Wena leave before she turned to her mother. “You should have reported her to me the moment you dismissed her the sec
ond time. You found her presence irritable because she would pair well with me.”
Her mother's mouth fell open.
“She also finds Av's presence irritable,” Mar said, stepping up to Aren. “Would you like to make comment about how well he pairs with you?”
Aren huffed out a breath. “No, we should see about our dresses for the ball. Not stand around talking about the man I'm not allowed to mate because one day twenty years ago he got very drunk and fell in love with me, but fell in bed with my mother.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
Mar glared at the dress, cut perfectly, her favourite colour, and overall just the sort of thing she would want to wear, and would enjoy wearing. It was nothing like the dresses her mother would send her, which cut too low and were always far too tight. The dress had been made by the palace tailor, who could name any lady's taste and had seen to Mar's dresses before. There were no baubles or stones stitched into the dress, no overdone embroidery. The skirt would fall to the shape of her hips, not to the shape of bone inserts, as was the style at court.
The dress was from her father.
She had told him not to go out of his way, not to provide things for her that were the place of her mate, that she didn't want his coin or his gifts. Neither of which meant anything to her because gifts had always come with strings attached.
Furious, Mar turned on Perlon, who had accepted the gift and presented it to her.
“Give it back,” Mar said. “I don't want it.”
“What's wrong with it?” her mate asked her, looking at the dress critically. “I was there with him when he chose the colour and demanded the style. The tailor wanted to do something more like what your mother used to give you, but I backed Jer and told the tailor that was not your chosen style.”
“Jer?” Mar asked Perlon. “He chose every part of this dress?”
“Not quite, as he had trouble deciding between two fabrics, this one and another with embroidery on it,” Perlon said with a weak smile. “I was the deciding vote on that one. Besides, the ball is in a few hours and the tailor hasn't even begun on the dress you asked to be altered for you.”
“Why not?” Mar demanded.
Perlon motioned to the dress. “Darling, you're only saying no because of who gave it to you. It's a perfect dress for you. What has Jer done that is so upsetting?”
“He's my father. It is awkward. And he's only giving this to me to try to make me love him. Gifts always come with strings attached.”
“Wear the dress,” Perlon said. “It's one thing if it were from your mother. Quite another from your father.”
The door to their room opened suddenly, causing both to turn from the dress. Telm pulled to a stop, pale. Her eyes roved over the dress, then over Mar and Perlon.
“Come,” was all she said before she turned and left as quickly as she had come.
Frowning at Perlon, Mar made a motion for him to stay where he was before following Telm out of her set of rooms and the short distance to Aren's. The door was open, though Telm stood just inside, hand on the door as Mar entered.
Aren knelt in the middle of the floor, surrounded by shreds and tatters. Clothing had been ripped apart and dropped unceremoniously in a pile. The only clothes that were whole were the training clothes Aren was wearing, and a dress hanging on the wardrobe.
The dress was loud, obnoxious, and just the thing Mar expected to see on a lady of a high wealth estate. Nothing about it spoke to Mar. The skirt flared out from extra fabric under the outer skirt. Frowning at the sight, Mar turned to the new handmaid.
“What happened?” Mar asked Wena, who had a bruise across her cheek and a cracked lip.
“Men arrived, told me they had nothing against me,” Wena said, working her jaw to try to crack it. “I refused to stand down, earning me this. They locked me in the bathing room and proceeded to rip apart any clothing they found.”
Mar turned to Telm, whose bruising had finally faded from her own attack. A different lady, a different set of men, no doubt, but the same ignorant anger. The older woman closed the door quickly.
“She won't respond,” Telm said quietly. “The ball is in a few hours and, like it or not, that monstrosity is all she has to wear besides the clothing on her back.”
“Did you report this?” Mar asked.
“To who?” Telm asked with a huff. “Her father? Her mother? This never would have happened if she had claimed a warrior, but no. She can't bring herself to do it. Claim a warrior and he would never allow this to happen. Instead she insists on doing everything herself and what does it get us? That piece of—”
“Language,” Mar hissed at Telm.
“That doesn't change the facts,” Telm said loudly enough to cause Aren's head to turn towards them slightly. “A queen needs to claim a warrior before the court, to allow him to stab people stupid enough to try her.”
“I can do that?” Mar asked, thinking about her own safety.
“What about the white one?” Wena interrupted, drawing the attention of both Telm and Mar. “You wanted me to catalogue Lady Aren's items to be moved into the queen's rooms.” Wena glanced at Mar. “To ensure that if anything went missing, we could go find it. I already had her training clothing delivered to the rooms, but the more expensive items were to remain here until the move.”
“There is no white dress among Aren's belongings,” Telm said, confusion plain.
Mar had to think hard. Aren had never mentioned a white dress, but she had mentioned some sort of mating dress. Breathing in, Mar considered the pile before Aren. There were no white shreds.
“Where was this other dress?” Mar asked Wena.
The handmaid turned and went to the wardrobe and the chest beside it, open but filled with scraps of paper, books, and trinkets. Aren's personal chest, which had been sent by her sister to the palace. Wena pulled each item out, setting it to the side and withdrew, from the very bottom, a cedar box the likes of which held the lace handkerchiefs. The box protected the handkerchiefs while giving them the lovely smell of cedar. Only this box was larger than normal.
Wena carried the box to Mar, who opened it. White dress, made of a fabric that was far too expensive given the wealth of the estate Aren's parents owned. Some of the stitches seemed older than others. Turning to Telm, Mar frowned, not understanding where such fine fabric had come from.
“Para's mating dress,” Telm said quietly, reaching into the box to pull the dress out. She gave it a shake, looking over the cut.
Simple, elegant, and covering to the toe. No boning or ribbing of any sort, no corset to pull in a stomach or sides. Not that Aren needed the corset with the training she had been doing with Av.
“I refuse to believe Para would ever wear that,” Mar said.
“What's left of it,” Aren said, pushing off the floor. “It was huge. I cut it down, and stitched it back together.” She motioned to the dress.
“Quite a seamstress, our lady,” Telm said, turning to Wena. “You served as a laundress two years ago. Do you recall how to smooth this type of fabric?”
“Yes, Lady Telm.” Wena moved forward and took the dress from Telm. “I can do that in here, even. Since I'm guessing we don't want others to know this dress exists.”
“No, we don't want to give anyone the chance to destroy it.” Telm turned to Aren. “You, young lady, into the bathing room with you. Head to toe scrub and your hair. Move, now.”
Telm watched Aren moved to the bathing room. Turning to Mar, the older woman scowled at her.
Telm grumbled. “You will wear the dress your father provided for you. Its cut is suited to your tastes, as are the colours. You will thank him for his efforts and give him some sign of affection before the poor man loses his mind.”
“How do I claim a warrior before the court?” Mar asked Telm.
“One claims a warrior simply by stating that he is theirs,” Telm responded sternly, taking hold of Mar's arm and steering her out of the rooms, closing the door behind them. “My dear, d
o not do that.”
In the hallway, Mar frowned at Telm. “But you just said to.”
“For her to claim a warrior, not you,” Telm said sternly.
Mar wondered if this had anything to do with why Telm had walked off suddenly when Mar brought up elopement. If Aren eloped there was nothing the court, or the southern baron, could do to change the mating bond. As annoyed as the court might have been, there would have been no way for them to make Av give in to them. He might kill half the court, but they'd still be mated.
“Very well, but isn't the fact that you want me to show affection to Jer also a type of claiming? On your part and on mine?”
“It is, but you cannot claim your father by verbally stating that he is yours,” Telm said sternly.
“Of course not.”
One only said that about a mate. Mar eyed Telm critically, deciding that in this case Telm could have her plots. Bending her head slightly, she motioned back to her own rooms.
“I should probably wash and get ready for the ball,” Mar said quietly, curtseying before she turned and walked back down the hallway.
Entering her rooms, Mar looked up to find Perlon exactly where she had left him. She closed the door firmly behind her and locked it for good measure. There was little chance anyone was going to listen in on her conversation, but she wanted to be absolutely certain that nothing leaked before Aren arrived at the ball.
“Para had Aren's entire wardrobe ripped apart,” Mar said quietly. “Including the dress Aren loved so much, the blue one?”
“She loved that dress?” Perlon asked. “I thought she only wore it because she had no other choice.”
“Please, she took pride in the fact she had salvaged a fabric no one else would ever be able to afford, and that she had done it on her own,” Mar said. “Now it's been destroyed.
“There's a lovely purple fabric in the tailor's stores now,” Perlon said with a small smile. “I realize blue is more her style, but this purple is a colour no one else will ever have. Far too expensive. Perhaps I should speak with the tailor and see if he can't replicate the style with a new colour for a new era of Aren's life?”