Mom and Dad stayed up in Mom’s rooms, and I’ll get to why in a minute.
When he returned a week ago, ahead of a huge snowstorm, Jehan was able tell us how Damedran was doing. By then he’d completed his month’s thorough tour with Damedran at his side, inspecting garrisons, handing out orders right and left “in the name of the king” and generally being In Charge.
Because this is what Dad wanted. Just as he’d wanted the record. Just as he wanted the wedding today—Jehan joining our family, which would add Zhavalieshin to his name—the same day as the coronation. Emphasizing how the four of us were a family.
The carriages stopped at the royal castle’s grand entrance as the first flakes began to drift from the sky. We walked into the great hall, glad of our heavy clothes, our breath puffing in the cold air. All the court was gathered, the smell of beeswax candles, and personal scents made of wildflowers and herbs, a kind of echo of summer.
It’s strange, how sharp my memory is with some details: the pale light glowing in the long windows, a soft bluish white light now that snow was falling; tears along my mother’s eyelids, and the corner of her mouth where the skin had softened over time, trembling even as she smiled; my dad’s hand holding hers tightly, his thumb rubbing absently over her palm the same way I liked to rub Jehan’s palm.
The glow of that snowy light on the white hair of a woman with a curiously ageless face and Jehan’s blue eyes, who had slipped in among the mages in their fine, light gray robes. She was Feraeth Jervaes, Jehan’s mother. She stood side by side with the former Queen Ananda, who smiled fully now, for the first time in many years.
One of the clearest and most precious memories was the look in Jehan’s eyes when he saw his mother, before he turned to me, smiling that smile with the deep dimple down one side.
And one of the dearest memories was the slight huskiness of emotion, the conviction in his voice as he said, “I offer you this ring, which has no beginning and no end. It is a symbol of our love . . .”
The funniest memory was the way I heard myself gulping for air almost every phrase as I echoed the same words and shoved the golden ring, all embroidered with intertwined leaves, onto his longest finger.
“Your prosperity is my prosperity . . .”
“Your hardship is my hardship . . .”
“. . . and we call upon all who are gathered here to witness the joining of this family, as long as we shall live.”
And then my memory grays out, but at some point I became aware of standing at my mother’s side, as Jehan stood at my father’s, and how their vows to the kingdom curiously echoed the vows of marriage.
Three things my father had asked for: that I write the record, that Jehan take his name. That’s two.
The third? Within the next three years, when the kingdom has accustomed itself to all of us, my father and mother will abdicate and go to Sartor as ambassadors, Mom to stay in a court she knows she will love, Dad to study magic with the most powerful mages. He thinks that’s the best way for him to prepare for the troubles ahead. He says that being king requires youth and strength. So he wants Jehan and me to take their place, and make those very same vows.
But the whole idea of me and queenship doesn’t yet compute. I’m not really accustomed to the princess gig yet.
So back to memories. Like the tenderness apparent in both as Jehan and his mother met again, after years of contact only through letters. She stroked my hair, whispering how welcome I was in her life.
And the last memories are a montage of music, and dancing under the glittering lights illuminating the castle.
So I sit here now, writing it all down—
Jehan just leaned over my shoulder. “Are you not done with that thing yet?”
“I have to put in our wedding.” I looked down at myself. “I have to describe me sitting in this ridiculous chair—who is the twit who put silk knots in the seat cushions? What were they thinking? And my first waltz in my wedding gown. Shall I put in how I tripped on my train? Then I have to get down what everyone looked like, and how your mom and mine got along like a couple of houses on fire—”
“Sasha.”
“What?”
“You are not writing down everything I say. Are you?”
“Yes. So speak slower.”
I can hardly write, I am laughing so hard.
“Shall. I. Describe. What. We. Should. Be. Doing. On. Our. Wedding. Night?”
Okay, he wins.
o0o
And here it is the next day, but as you can see, it’s going to be short, for very soon all these papers will lie on the desk of King Mathias and he can do whatever he wants with them.
Because why?
Because a little while ago, I was waking up with that happy, sleepy sense that all is right with the world. How rare, how wonderful! Outside it was cold and clear and icy, but inside warm and snug, and . . .
I looked over, but no husband slumbering beside me!
I sat up, peering through the open doors to the wardrobe—for I’d moved into his rooms, which were a lot less gloomy than Queen Ananda’s old chambers. And what did I see? Jehan standing before the mirror, trying on the most horrible pink shirt I’ve ever seen—all embroidered with orange peonies.
“Jehan!” I yelped. When he turned around, I saw that he’d managed to dig up a pair of deck trousers of purple and yellow stripes. “You are not, not, not going out into the city in those.”
“No.” He strode back into the bedroom and preened, then began tying his hair up in a rose and violet bandana with green fringes. “But I am wearing it on board the Zathdar.”
“What?”
He gave me his old, ironic grin. “Zathdar the pirate has to sail again.”
“Today? Now? I thought we’d . . .” I waved my hand around the room. “Have some time to ourselves.”
He flicked one of those magic communication boxes, which was lying on the desk. “I told you Owl rejoined my fleet. And Elva Eban’s the new navigator, by the way. He just wrote. He’s found Bragail of the Skate. Says he not only turned corsair, which doesn’t surprise me. But that far too many of the very ones among Randart’s old captains that I found had skipped out of Ellir are now poised in time-honored Khanerenth fashion to turn to piracy, aided by that slimy Chas, with half my father’s personal treasury. It’s time to do something about them, don’t you think?”
“But—”
“So it’ll be crowded in the captain’s cabin. Won’t that be cozier?” He wiggled his brows. “Get rid of those papers. You’re done.”
“You mean you want me to join you? In the dead of winter, chasing a slimy Randart captain and probably his entire fleet and that stinker Chas, all turned pirate?” I yelled, for he’d vanished inside the wardrobe. “What kind of a wedding trip is that?”
He reappeared. “In the dead of winter.”
He tossed my winter mocs onto the bedding.
“Chasing pirates led by a slimy Randart captain.”
He pitched my sturdy shirt and riding trousers into my lap.
“And desperate duels on heaving decks. For truth, justice and honor.”
Next came my sword.
“Against sinister villains. Winning fabulous treasures. You know you want to,” he cooed.
And I do!
Copyright & Credits
Sasharia En Garde
Sherwood Smith
Book View Café 2015
ISBN: 978-1-61138-546-5
Copyright © 2015 Sherwood Smith
First published: Samhain Publishing, 2009, as Once a Princess and Twice a Prince
Cover illustration © 2015 by The Cabil
Production Team:
Cover Design: The Cabil
Copy Editor: James Hetley
Proofreader: James Hetley
Formatter: Vonda N. McIntyre
This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incid
ents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Digital edition: 20150803vnm
www.bookviewcafe.com
Book View Café Publishing Cooperative
P.O. Box 1624, Cedar Crest, NM 87008-1624
About the Author
Sherwood Smith was a teacher for twenty years, teaching history, literature, drama, and dance. She writes science fiction and fantasy for adults and young readers.
To learn more about Sherwood Smith, please visit
http://www.sherwoodsmith.net/
Send an email to Sherwood at [email protected] or join her LiveJournal group to join in the fun with other readers at
http://community.livejournal.com/athanarel/profile
Book View Café Ebooks by Sherwood Smith
Crown Duel
A Stranger to Command
Senrid
Fleeing Peace
Remalna’s Children
A Posse of Princesses
The Trouble with Kings
CJ’s Notebooks
Over the Sea
Mearsies Heili Bounces Back
Poor World
Hunt across Worlds
The Wren Series
Wren to the Rescue
Wren’s Quest
Wren’s War
Wren Journeymage
Exordium
(with Dave Trowbridge)
The Phoenix in Flight
Ruler of Naught
A Prison Unsought
The Rifter’s Covenant
Short Fiction
Excerpts from the Diary of a Henchminion
Being Real
Book View Café Anthologies
Beyond Grimm
Brewing Fine Fiction
Ways to Trash Your Writing Career
Dragon Lords and Warrior Women
About Book View Café
Book View Café is a professional authors’ publishing cooperative offering DRM-free ebooks in multiple formats to readers around the world. With authors in a variety of genres including mystery, romance, fantasy, and science fiction, Book View Café has something for everyone.
Book View Café is good for readers because you can enjoy high-quality DRM-free ebooks from your favorite authors at a reasonable price.
Book View Café is good for writers because 95% of the profit goes directly to the book’s author.
Book View Café authors include New York Times and USA Today bestsellers, Nebula, Hugo, and Philip K. Dick Award winners, World Fantasy and Rita Award nominees, and winners and nominees of many other publishing awards.
www.bookviewcafe.com
The Trouble with Kings
Sample Chapter
Sherwood Smith
www.bookviewcafe.com
Book View Café Edition
March 10, 2015
ISBN: 978-1-61138-497-0
Copyright © 2008 Sherwood Smith
Chapter One
I woke up.
My head ached before I even tried moving it. I decided not to try. Some experiments just aren’t worth the effort. Even breathing hurt.
So I closed my eyes and drifted, hoping for a dream to slip into. Then the squeak of a door and footsteps banished the possibility of sleep.
I turned my head—yes, it did hurt worse to move—and almost panicked at the fact that I couldn’t see anything until I remembered that my eyes were still closed.
Oh.
That’s how bad the headache was.
Eyelids up, then. An old woman looked down at me, her hair hidden under a kerchief, her countenance anxious. When our eyes met, relief eased her brow.
“Ah. So glad you have rejoined the living, child. Don’t worry none. My husband’s gone away straight to them’t should know, and you’ll be taken care of proper.”
I tried to talk, but it came out a groan. So I tried again, making an effort not to move my head.
“Thank you . . .” Ho! It worked! Though only at a whisper. I added, “Don’t know who ‘them’ is . . . but if you think ‘they’ should know . . . I won’t argue.” It took some time to get that out, and though I was trying to be reasonable, the poor woman was looking more anxious by the moment. “Uh, what happened?” I finished.
“You do not remember?”
“No.” Could be this headache . . . Where am I? I thought—or tried to think—but the process was like trying to chase fireflies in a fog, only it hurt. “Uh.” I made another discovery. “I know it’s going to sound somewhat scattered, but I can’t seem to place who I am, either.”
“Those knots on your head would account for it,” she said in a soft, soothing voice. “I’ve heard o’ that. Don’t worry none. Your memory will return.”
“Must have been some tiff.” I struggled for humor.
“He found you face down on the south road, my husband did. You fell off a horse, hit your head against a stone.”
I winced, trying again to remember, but the hammer inside my skull increased its frenetic banging. She straightened up. “Enough chatter. What you need is sleep.”
My eyelids, by then, weighed about as much as a brace of draught horses, and I gladly complied.
o0o
When I woke again, it was to noise. Lots of noise. Boot heels, clanking, and the old woman’s voice. “She’s in here. I beg you, Your Highness, not to make too much noise. She’s fearsome done.”
(I’m a she. Good. I’d just as soon be, I decided.)
“I’ve bade her sleep.” On that, the door creaked open again. “’Twas so good of your highness to come yourself. We hardly expected such an honor.”
A man walked in, flanked by liveried men in violet, blue, and gold. He was tall—his head nearly brushed the low plank ceiling. Red, wind-tousled hair lay on his shoulders, and hazel-green eyes looked down on me from a bony face. He threw back a fold of a green cloak, put his head to one side, and smiled at me.
“And so we are reunited,” he said.
“Glad someone seems to know me.” He bent to hear me, frowning slightly. “I wish I could say the same, but . . .” I ran out of breath again.
“She’s lost her memory,” the old woman said.
The man glanced her way. A diamond glimmered in one of his ears, a singularly beautiful gem. Was it familiar? How did I know it was a diamond?
That many thoughts made me dizzy, and the hammer plonked my skull again. “Uhn,” I commented.
The man gave me a quizzical look and turned around. The breeze from his long cloak sent cool, horse-scented air over my face. Horse. How did I know that?
“You will be suitably rewarded,” the young man said to the woman.
He gestured to one of the silent liveried men, who were about his same age—late twenties, say—both big, well armed. One handed the woman a clinking pouch.
The fine woolen cloak moved, the lining gleamed blue as a long hand gestured toward me. The second liveried man stepped close, a tall blond fellow. He paused, looking perplexed, then bent and slid one arm beneath my shoulders, the other under my knees, and lifted me up.
Aches tweaked all over me, and I tried not to groan, because I could see that he was trying to be careful.
“P’raps she ought not to be moved yet,” the old woman said anxiously. “We can tend her.”
“Ah, but this is your room and she has displaced you, has she not?” the red-haired man responded. And, smiling, “You may be sure she will receive the best of care at the castle.”
“Perhaps a wagon?” The old woman’s voice was uncertain.
“But I would worry. Poor little Cousin Flian.” The man smiled on everyone. “I’ll feel better to have her safely home.” He stepped near enough so that I could smell the scent in his hair, a subtle perfume that muted the aroma of horse and sweat and mail-coat that was under my nose now. “Kardier here will ride gently.”
The woman clucked to herself and trailed after, offering suggestions an
d comments as, clomp, clomp, our procession passed through the small confines of the wooden cottage and out into the sunshine. I closed my eyes against the glare.
The man’s breath was warm on my cheek as he set me across a horse’s withers, then mounted behind me.
The prince tucked my left arm across my middle and patted it. “It will be best. Thank you again.”
His smiling voice had altered from assurance to command. The woman’s twittering protests stopped. Weapons clanked, well-shod hooves clopped. A quick glimpse: quite an armed company. All for me? And how, and why, was all this panoply so familiar?
The man carrying me shifted his grip, picked up his reins, the horse moved forward, and I knew I was not going to enjoy this journey at all.
A shadow on my face made it possible to open my eyes. The red-haired prince rode next to us. “We searched most assiduously for you, Flian,” he said. “I promise you will receive the most attentive care at my castle.”
“Good,” I muttered, wincing at the increasing gait. “I’m going to need it.”
The walk became a trot, and stars splattered across my eyelids; they whirled larger and larger and engulfed me. I sank with gratitude into insensibility.
My next awakening inspired from me a bit more enthusiasm once I’d registered a few facts.
First, no horses. Second, I lay in a soft, clean bed. A quilt of silk and down covered me.
My bed was in a large chamber with white-plastered walls with blue flowers painted in a pattern below the ceiling.
Need made me automatically whisper the Waste Spell—which I was glad I remembered, even if I couldn’t remember where I was born.
A sweet voice murmured, “Please, would you take some broth?”
“Gladly,” I croaked. “So hungry I can’t even remember my last meal.” I was going to add, Ha, ha, natural wit can be counted out of whatever talents I might possess, but it took too much effort to speak.
Sasharia en Garde Page 49