Bracus stepped forward. “He slipped out of our grasp, he and his weasel of a guard.”
Jabez, Clara supplied internally.
“They will need to be found,” she said with halting authority. She knew no one ordered the Band., “As he will try to...” She found she could not finish without emotion overtaking her.
Charles nodded, approaching her side. “We will find him, Clara.”
She looked at him. “What of our guard?”
He shook his head. “All dead, Queen Clara.”
“Just Clara, please. She is no longer here to force formalities.”
No one asked who She was.
Clara looked at Matthew and Bracus. Their intense eyes followed her with an uneasy intensity. Of course, her eyes followed Matthew as if magnetized. She sighed. Things were a mess. That was certain.
They began the ugly task of rifling through the belongings of the dead, taking all that they found useful. Food and drink were of critical importance. They gathered what they could and departed the meadow, leaving the gore for the creatures of the Outside.
Ada's body was dragged on a contraption of wood poles strung together with a leather bottom. Clara could make out her profile through the roughly woven shroud and it tightened her heart.
She looked away.
After eating in the woods, they drank their fill and traveled back to the clan. A long line of horses with the ransacked gear made a train-of-sorts, the Band, its caboose.
CHAPTER 34
The Sphere
Clara dipped the ink quill into the glass jar of ink, while six anxious faces watched her pen strokes as if enthralled.
The truth of it was this:
They were now at peace with the Clan of Ohio, their sworn allies, this fourteenth day of July, in the year of the Guardian, twenty and thirty.
Clara looked up at the sea of faces in the Gathering Room who witnessed the event with a mixture of excitement and curiosity. Here were the reported savages, present in the sphere, their President and their people aligning.
It was an historic occasion.
Clara stood, the hot wax dripping from the Marker's personal seal. Stepping forward before it could cool, she pressed the royal crest from the ring that she wore into the soft wax, waited, then released it with a light pull. The mark of the sphere with the oyster and pearl at its center stood out in stark relief, and the treaty was complete.
The announcer—the same bumbling fellow who’d announced at her Day of Birth Celebration but miraculously more graceful—declared to the kingdom,
“Let it be known that Queen Clara Williamson, high monarch of the Kingdom of Ohio, has signed a Treaty of Peace and Alliance with the Clan of Ohio from this day onward.”
He stepped back and Clara gave him a small nod of acknowledgment and he smiled back. His voice had rung true and proud and she was pleased.
Charles came up beside her and gave her a gaze so full that she had to look away as tears threatened. She ruthlessly collected herself so she could address her People. Her emotions were shimmering things that undulated underneath her tightly held composure.
“Thank you all for being so gracious during this enormous transition.” There was a smattering of applause, and Clara held up her hand to quiet it. “I would like to thank my adviser, Sir Charles Pierce, for his diligent service to the crown and my loyal guard, who defended the injury to our sphere until we could manage a portal that would safeguard us properly once more.”
She looked out over her people with shining eyes, and continued. “And for all of you who have shown and told me how much you enjoy this change of leadership and swore your undying loyalty, I thank you as well.”
Clara stepped back, taking a deep cleansing breath of the steamy sphere air, relishing its familiarity.
“Let us begin our celebration.”
The people broke apart, mingling and taking food from the large banquet tables, loud and raucous. Clara smiled. They were relaxed and happy, their new ruler someone they followed out of respect, not fear.
Charles was animatedly speaking with Sarah, and everyone seemed to be deep in cup, food, or conversation. Clara found her eyes seeking the man she could not stop thinking about.
There he was, his gaze already locked upon her.
Matthew saw Clara's eyes find his, and his body moved of its own volition. His need to be near her burned from the inside out. It had been three long weeks of explaining and regaining trust, and he had been kept from her. Now, finally, they could see each other.
Clara met him halfway, the throne a backdrop behind them. Her gaze went to the gills on his neck, and she belatedly realized that when he was excited, they would fully open, as they did now. The stripes of pink flesh decorated a neck the size of one of the small timbers Outside.
Her legs weakened as he got closer. He was suddenly there, right in front of her. When he took her elbow, she could feel his fingers like brands of fire, running from the point of contact and radiating throughout her body as warm heat spread.
His nostrils flared as he looked at her mouth, and she knew, knew, that he wished to put his lips upon hers. But propriety swirled around them, and as they looked at each other, President Bowen appeared.
He cleared his throat, and Clara felt Matthew's fingers slide down her forearm, then fall away. It felt like a loss.
They turned and faced him.
He looked at them both and indicated they talk in a far corner of the Gathering Room. Clara saw Charles watch her, his face darkening.
He was all for the treaty, but did not like her role amongst the savages—Clan, she corrected herself.
She knew, as Sarah and Olive had both said, that Charles's feelings went beyond friendship. It had caused a strain this past month, a strain upon a friendship that had once been easy.
Bowen turned, taking her arm, and Matthew tensed. She sensed he did not like anyone touching her.
She came back to what Bowen had been saying reluctantly, distracted this near Matthew.
She interrupted him. “I apologize, President Bowen, I missed that first part...”
“Arthur, please, Clara.”
She nodded.
“As I was saying, now that the signing of the treaty is behind us, how do you propose to introduce the delicacies of...” He raised his eyebrow.
She was unsure how to broach the subject. Possibly, she could let it run its natural course. She said as much. Matthew's pulsating heat spilled into her.
He shook his head. “That may take time. Perhaps there are women who would wish to live Outside, to become part of the community. Then they may find themselves amongst the men of the clan. Visitation would not facilitate unions with the same expediency as a change of residency.”
He was right, but how to say such without the whole of the kingdom becoming squeamish about the basest fact that the Clan was dying out because there were not enough females? There was not an easy solution within the societal constraints under which they lived.
“Unless....” Bowen trailed off.
Clara looked at him sharply, her mind racing furiously to intuit his implication.
“What say you, President?”
“Unless their Queen was to mate with a clan-dweller. In that way, she would lead by example,” he said, his eyes hooded, his expression cloaked in the shadows of the corner.
Matthew's eyebrows lowered and his hands became tight. “She cannot mate with just anyone, sir!” he said fiercely, his face a mass of tight angles. Clara reached out and he relaxed under her touch, his eyes softening.
“I did not say she was without choice. Obviously, it is entirely up to the Queen, whom she would choose. She is a select, after all. That very fact predicates the choosing.”
They fell silent, her strange select status a detail which needed much discussion.
“She needs to come to the clan, stand before the Band, and be tested. This is the only way,” Matthew said.
President Bowen bowed his head, not meeting
Clara's eyes.
“Sir... Arthur, what is this he says?” She gave them troubled eyes.
“We have not encountered a select in many years, since before my time.” He paused, spreading his palms away from his body. “It used to be these special females were meant only for the Band and that whoever they responded to most would then be their chosen mate. It was not a matter of intellect, but rather, biology.”
“I am understanding that you wish for me to come to the Band, be ʻtestedʼ for my reaction to certain males more than others? And if so, I should choose which to mate with?”
They stood there silently, and Clara felt their discomfort.
“What?” she asked impatiently.
“If there is more than one male of the Band that you respond to equally, they may decide to....”
“To fight for you,” Matthew finished flatly.
Clara stood there, struggling with her emotions. Was what she felt for Matthew some kind of odd chemistry? It was not real? She could possibly go to the Band and feel this with one of the others? It was a terrible potential.
Matthew's anguished eyes told her she was right in her supposition.
But she had her duty, always her duty. It was not just to the people of her sphere. She had given her word that she would do all she could for the people of the clan as well.
Clara straightened. “When?”
President Bowen exhaled in a great rush. “One day hence.”
Clara nodded, looking at Matthew. What would this mean for them?
“Clara,” Bowen said her name.
She looked at him. “You understand that Matthew's standing amongst the Band has been compromised by your taking...”
She looked at him. “Meaning?”
“That he will not be included in the test.”
Her eyes met Matthew's tortured gaze and she could only stare.
“That is not acceptable,” she all but yelled. “Did he not tell you of his...” she looked at Matthew, not wanting to betray what she knew of him, “past circumstances? Surely that gives him some allowance?” She placed her hands on her hips, her eyes on fire, the hair that Matthew so admired flying about her hips. He looked at her with a longing that shook her to her core. She would not desert him or wrest away his chance with her because the Band and their leader were trifling about what had happened. She was fine. She was well. All was as it should be.
Free from abuse at last.
“If I do this, at least allow his inclusion.” She gazed steadily at the President. Their eyes met for a pregnant pause.
“Very well, but on this condition,” he said, looking at them both. “He shall be last.” His words sat there in the moist air, both men blotting their faces with linen cloths, neither acclimated to the humidity of the sphere.
Clara deliberated. It was the best she could do and satisfy everyone. The larger question remained. What would happen if another of the Band made her feel the way she had with Matthew? What then? She raised her eyes and saw that Charles's full attention was on her small group of three. His eyes narrowed. She knew he would never condone this. But for his own reasons.
It was an excellent political decision for the sphere. Her marriage to their allies would solidify and progress the alliance. However, their friendship would suffer, and that she valued. She valued it very much.
As he approached, a thousand memories encroached, and her spirit felt torn. He was her closest friend. Yet his love for her crippled his objectivity. She had not seen it before.
She did now.
“What is this, Clara?” Charles asked, looking at the two men, his eyes settling on her.
“We were discussing my designation as a select.”
Charles's gaze darkened. “What of it?”
Clara drew a deep breath. “They have a tradition amongst the clan-dwellers in which, if there is a select, she is tested with the males of the Band for the most beneficial mating.”
A silence cloaked the moment so thoroughly it felt as though the noise all around them was heard through glass and rain, deafening and at the same time, silent.
He kept staring, and she stared back. It was when his face started to gain high color that Clara became alarmed, but it was not she that he directed his anger at. It was Matthew. He was more than ready to respond, his emotions boiling beneath the surface.
“You cannot leave her alone, can you? What exactly did you do to her Outside when no one was around to defend her against you?” Charles said in a low and furious voice that traveled better than she would have liked.
Matthew closed the distance between them in two long strides. “I have not forced my hand or body against her, sphere-dweller.” Grabbing Charles by the lapel, he dragged them almost nose-to-nose, which instantly gained the attention of all the Band members and a few of Clara's subjects as well.
She came between them, struggling to assert her body, dividing their anger.
“Stop this, both of you,” Clara said in a low furious voice. Turning in the tangle of their arms and facing Charles with her back pressed against Matthew's chest, she stared at Charles. “Please, do not do this, not now. Let us discuss this later in private.”
Her eyes dug into his, imploring him. Charles grappled. He was most assuredly done with hiding his feelings. He no longer wished to squelch what he felt for Clara, yet he did not wish to hurt her. He was starting to calm down when the savage leaned down and took a deep breath of the crown of her head, smelling her fragrant hair, which undid him utterly. Every intellectual command he had just given himself was gone in a red haze of rage and jealously.
He launched himself around Clara, landing a grazing punch on the jaw of the savage, who used one arm to twist Clara behind him, protecting her from him.
Clara couldn't believe this was the Charles she had grown up with, this raging animal who came at Matthew, death riding his eyes.
“Guards!” Clara screamed and they came to their Queen's command, grabbing Matthew.
“No!” she shrieked as Charles landed another blow on Matthew, and he retaliated, snapping his arm forward as quick as a snake, impacting Charles's jaw as she watched his head snap. But like an enraged bull, he came at Matthew again, his bell rung but not stopped. Head down, he charged, and Clara did the most stupidest thing she had ever done in her life. She ran in front of Matthew, as if her fragility was a shield that he needed.
“Clara, no!” Matthew roared, and Charles's momentum carried him into them both, knocking the wind out of Clara. She fell against Matthew, who pin wheeled backward and grabbed onto her as she was falling, cushioning her fall. She bounced on top of him, her head cracked back into his forehead, and she was saw stars.
Bright spots of color danced before her eyes like fireflies, narrowing to a single pinpoint beam of light. The last face she saw was Bracus’s, his mouth moving but no sound coming out, then she knew no more.
CHAPTER 35
Clara came awake in stages with Charles at her bedside. She did not snatch her hand away, but she said the one thing that came to her mind, “Matthew.”
She saw Charles's eyes flinch, and she had a stab of guilt, then recalled his behavior and was battling her remorse less keenly.
It was not Matthew but Bracus who appeared at her bedside. Clara gazed about her room and saw that there were four guards, two inside her doorway and two outside. Breathing easier, she sat up, releasing Charles's hand and arranging the pillows behind her.
She noticed that she was still in her royal wardrobe but missing the crown. Olive had put it away, she was sure. Clara had not yet donned the Queen's crown, preferring her own to the ostentatious ornament that had been Ada's.
Clara's head throbbed where it had landed on Matthew's forehead, and she laboriously gathered her wits about her. “Bracus,” she began, and he stepped forward under the glare of Charles's scrutiny.
“Where is Matthew?”
“He is in the guest chambers,” Bracus answered.
She nodded. That was good.
“Is he —did I hurt him?”
Bracus grinned so wide she heard his face smile. “Nay, Queen Clara, a wee thing such as you bouncing off his thick skull would do nothing.” His smile faded, and he looked at Charles briefly then back at her. “It is you who had us worried.” His gaze traveled her face as if he knew every curve and plane. Clara could feel a reciprocal heat warm her face, and she knew that her response showed. Charles's eyes narrowed as he watched. What had happened to him? His anger seemed always near now.
Clara did not wish to incite Charles further, and a pool of resentment bubbled up. She was tired of tiptoeing about, walking amongst peoplesʼ feelings as if eggs were scattered at her feet.
She sighed. “Bracus?”
He inclined his head, taking in her loveliness, that special fragrance that was Clara but also more, other. That “adviser” of hers was going to be trouble. Even before today Bracus had known it. His feelings for Clara clear to all but her.
“Let me have a word with Charles, and later today we will convene with your president and choose a time that works for all.”
“Yes, Queen Clara.”
“Please, we have been through entirely too much to stand on ceremony. It is my wish to be called Clara by you.”
Bracus smiled. She made a fine ruler for one so young. He did not mourn the other Queen's passing, especially in light of what Matthew had told the Band. He paused, remembering.
*
“She has known little of compassion since the death of her father, the king.”
“Why did the Queen beat her?” James had asked Matthew.
He had shrugged. “She drinks wine incessantly. She only breaks from it while asleep. Clara kept the secret of her abuse for years.”
“Aye, it is very good that she is dead. It is that wolverine of a Prince who gives me worry. He and that guard evaded our blades. I, for one, will not rest until his neck is beneath it again.”
The Band put their fist to their hearts. A promise was forged. For the protection of the new Queen, for the strengthening of the alliance between their peoples, the Prince must be found and executed.
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