The Pretender_s Crown ic-2

by C. E. Murphy

  The Pappas's audience hall is more dramatic than any throne room Tomas has ever seen. It's easily ten times the height of a man, like a great cathedral, and all the tremendous arches and lines bring the eye to the solitary throne at the far end, where sits a man resplendent in white. He is, indeed, the only thing in the room of so little colour: everything else is brilliant to the point of bedazzlement, but it is appropriate that God's voice on earth should wear simple robes in unadorned white. The Pappas in his hall is an awesome sight, and Tomas notes that Javier does not hesitate or falter, though his breath catches. Lesser men have fallen on their faces and wept at simply crossing this threshold; Javier is made of sterner stuff, and for an unworthy moment Tomas wonders if it is the witch-power that sustains him.

  The Pappas rises, which he does not always do, and greets Javier first with the ring to be kissed, and then with an embrace and kisses for the young king's cheeks. Javier turns ruddy with pleasure, unattractively: blushes do not sit well on his ginger-born skin tones. He is given a backless chair, one step below the Pappas's, and they speak for a few minutes of comparative inconsequentialities: Rodrigo's health, the Pappas's sorrow over Sandalia's death. Javier smiles on discussing the one and becomes grave over the other; that, then, is the Pappas's cue to murmur, “And you are here, I think, for blessings, my son. What might I ask God to grant you this day?”

  To Tomas's surprise, the often-arrogant prince slips from his chair to kneel before the Pappas, and hope bursts in Tomas's heart. If Javier is willing to bend knee to the father of the church, perhaps his desire to put the witchpower behind him is genuine, and Tomas might dare hold his tongue on the dangerous topic. He doesn't want to see Javier burn; he has seen men sent to that fate before. It may be better than allowing their souls to be condemned to Hell, but it is not a good death.

  “I would ask so many blessings you will think me bold, Father,” Javier whispers. His Parnan is flawless, as though he was born to the tongue; so, too, is his Essandian, and Tomas is sure the prince has many other strings to his language bow. “I would beg for your prayers for my mother's soul.”

  The Pappas puts an age-spotted hand on Javier's head. “Do not beg for this, my son. Such prayers are gladly made, even without the asking.”

  Of course they are; Tomas knows that Javier knows this, and knows, too, that the uncrowned king is playing a game of proportions. It's well-handled, and Tomas wonders briefly if that would relieve Rodrigo, or only irritate him. Very likely irritate him, as it will be only a matter of hours before Rodrigo has taken the cowlike Essandian girl as his bride, and for him to learn now that for all his faults, Javier can be a diplomat… well, it would not make the situation any easier.

  Discomfort trickles down Tomas's spine as he considers these things. Rodrigo has, perhaps, caved too easily, after a lifetime of refusing to consider a marriage bed. It's a thought that should have come to Tomas earlier, but until now, he's been full of youthful triumph at the prince's decision. He bites the inside of his cheek and casts a glance upward, seeking guidance or reassurance: anything that puts quiet to the question suddenly in his mind.

  Javier's voice does the job, asking his next boon. “I bear glad tidings for all of us, holiness. My uncle Rodrigo has finally chosen to be wed-”

  It is only then that Tomas becomes fully aware that there are others in the hall, the Pappas's Primi, those bishops who select and ordain and guide him in matters more mundane than God. A clamour rises up, delight and astonishment, and Tomas glances to his left and right, discovering more than a dozen crimson-clad men have appeared just out of his line of vision, standing back to make a half-circle around the petitioners. Now that he knows they're there, he half-recalls hearing quiet footsteps after their own, but overall their presence is a surprise, and his heart's gait leaps with it.

  Javier, it seems, either knew they were there or has most wonderful control. He waits just long enough to speak again, waits for their questions and comments to begin to fade before his voice rises to command attention. An odd surge of pride fills Tomas's chest, confusing him; he has no reason at all to be proud, or not, of this young king.

  “Rodrigo has chosen to marry on this very day, finally moving in haste to answer the topic of succession that is such a concern to all of us. He has chosen his own bride, a woman of remarkable aspect,” and there is not a hint of irony in Javier's voice as he says that. Tomas wonders how long it took him to settle on a phrase that suggested one thing without ever saying it at all, “and of unquestionable faith. It is his sorrow that he cannot beg your blessing himself, Holy Father, but I would ask it for him, that his union be one of contentment and of many strong children. Will you bless them from afar?”

  Because Tomas has met the Pappas more than once, he sees in the Holy Father's eyes something that he perhaps should not. A smile of benediction graces the old man's mouth, and his hands rise and make the sign of the cross with grace and deliberation as he speaks words of blessings on a marriage taking place far away. But in his eyes there is the slightest thread of irritation, and Tomas believes he knows why.

  The greater number of names on the list of Rodrigo's possible brides were Parnan, many from Cordula herself, and yet the Essandian prince has broken rank and is marrying a woman of his own selecting. It is difficult to be infuriated, because he has at last agreed to a wedding bed at all, but it is easy to be less than pleased, when Cordula believed this gesture would make its hold on Rodrigo absolute. Tomas ought not be torn between loyalties, but he sees a little humour in Rodrigo's tricks, and has a touch of sympathy for the Pappas whose control is not without cracks. Still, he's wise enough to keep that from his face while the Pappas completes his commendation. For a moment silence reigns in the hall, and Tomas wonders if they are done.

  “I would beg one last boon, Holy Father.” Javier lifts his eyes to the Pappas's, and caution trickles anew through Tomas's belly. He doesn't know what Javier will ask, but he feels that it will set something in motion, something that can perhaps never be stopped.

  Briefly, very briefly he gives thanks to God that he is permitted to be here to see such things, and only after the fact does he remember that he has also been made to keep secrets through someone else's will, and wonders at the price of inclusion.

  “I go from Cordula to seek a bride of my own,” Javier says, and his voice is strong now, liquid silver with passion. “To seek a bride, to claim my throne, and then, Holy Father, to make war in my dead mother's name to reclaim Aulun from the Reformation church. My plea to you is that you would bless the marriage I will make, bless my sword so it might carry God's freedom to the heathens, and for your hands to place a crown on my head that all might know I am chosen by you and by Heaven for this duty that I fear is mine to bear.”

  There is no crown in the Pappas's hands, and yet they come down on Javier's head as though they hold one. It is benediction, it is honour, it is confirmation, and it is as though God Himself has touched Javier's brow, for a bolt of silver so bright it bleaches all the colour from the room explodes outward.

  Voices cry out, but Javier surges to his feet, shining, yes, shining with what must seem to all to be God's light. He seizes the Pappas's hands and kisses his ring again and again, while cheers, first of astonishment and then of excitement, begin to ring in the massive audience hall.

  Beside Tomas, Marius kneels, slow action weighted with respect and, to see his face, sorrowful resignation. Javier is lost to him, Tomas thinks, but his gaze returns to the king of Gallin, and he knows that much worse is true.

  Javier is lost to them all.

  ROBERT, LORD DRAKE

  23 March 1588 † Aria Magli, in northern Parna

  In Aria Magli, many miles to the north, hairs lift on Robert Drake's arms and he turns southward, frowning across a distance too great for eyes to see. After long moments, discomfort fades and he lowers his gaze, lips pursed as he finds himself wondering, wondering, wondering.

  C.E. Murphy

  The Pretender's
Crown

  RODRIGO, PRINCE OF ESSANDIA

  23 March 1588 † Isidro; Rodrigo's private chapel

  Every crowned head in Echon will be furious with him, but it's the young woman's mother Rodrigo is concerned about. The girl has not an ounce of cruelty-or sense-in her, and she will spend her life pampered and treated like a queen. Indeed, if Rodrigo were of Maurish faith, he might marry the girl as well, just to distract her mother from the insult she'll perceive.

  He regrets that there was no other way, but diversion is an excellent tactic, whether in war, politics, or religion, and this matter combines all three. Cordula, nevermind the Kaiser in Ruessland or the warring kings of the Prussian confederation, would not have allowed him to do what he intends to do, and Rodrigo de Costa is not a man to be dictated to. If he must marry, he will by God do it on his own terms, and he will make a match worth mentioning of it.

  He takes a moment, because he's in the chapel, to be somewhat apologetic for taking God's name in vain, but then footsteps echo on the floor behind him and there are more important things to attend to than the unlikelihood of an offended Lord.

  To his relief, he's never seen the woman who stands backlit by morning sunlight streaming in the open doors. Amusement follows that thought; to his relief, but she's the woman he intends to marry. Still, he expected the girl's mother, and he'd rather face a political opponent than an insulted parent.

  For that's what Akilina Pankejeff is: a political opponent, not an ally. Not yet, perhaps not ever, though wedding himself to her makes a bed their two countries will share, and that, in theory, means an alliance between lovers.

  It's a long and interesting moment before Akilina curtsies, and he wonders what she's thinking as she does so. When she straightens he offers a bow in return: unnecessary by rank, but crucial in that it will smooth waters that are by their very definition troubled.

  That, he suspects, was more or less what she was thinking, too, although as dvoryanin, a grand duchess of Khazar rather than royalty, she should, in fact, bend knee to a prince whether she likes it or not.

  Because she stands in the light, she can see him, but he cannot see her clearly. He knows the picture he makes: aging, but well, with silver at his temples and brightening the small sharp beard he's taken to wearing. Long-legged and fit, he has taken some care in maintaining his shape, both from vanity and practicality. A man burdened with extra weight cannot go to war so easily, nor, should the need arise, fight off an assassin. Rodrigo likes to think he's a practical man.

  And because he's practical, he won't make the Khazarian duchess come to him. Instead, he steps down from the altar and into her shadow, amused at the implications imagining Akilina is seizing on them, hoping she might also seize the upper hand in the marriage that is about to take place.

  When he steps out of the light and shadows that she casts, what he sees first of all is that she wears a sheepskin around her shoulders for warmth, and what he says, all unintentionally, is, “Oh, well done, my lady. Well done indeed. Those who remember will remember well, thanks to you.”

  She curtseys again, and her smile is, he thinks, meant to be demure, but to his eyes it only hides her teeth. Her eyes, though lowered, slide to follow him as he circles her, one shark waiting on another. There will be blood soon, of that Rodrigo is sure, and he intends the greater part of it will be hers.

  She is, at a glance, all the things he has heard she is: beautiful in the way an obsidian dagger might be, black and dangerous and sharp. It is not her nature to stand and be circled, even when she wears, as she does now, a gown encrusted with gold and pearls; a gown intended for little more than to be looked at, for it weighs a woman down. No one travels with this kind of dress at hand, not without long preparation for an anticipated wedding. That she wears it means she has found strings to pull and favours to call in, not an easy thing to do with only two weeks' notice for impending nuptials, and with a long journey made in that time besides. She's clever, then, and drives a hard bargain, both of which are commonly believed.

  But the sheepskin tells him that she's more than clever. She binds herself to Sandalia with that skin, intimates friendship with a dead woman, and tells him clearly that she understands politics and marriage beds and all the reasons for putting them together. It verges on brilliance, and he admires her for it.

  When he's made a full circle he stops and says what he intended to say as his first words to her, before she surprised him into speaking unrehearsed: “I think we shall look well at the altar together, don't you?”

  “Da, my lord.” Her voice, like her cleverness, pleases him. It's warmer than he expected, richer: a woman with her sharp beauty might easily have had a piercing voice. Curious to hear it again, he asks a question he knows the answer to, but then, hearing her response will tell him things, too.

  “Irina is informed?”

  Her eyes are black; this Khazarian raven's eyes are black, glittering, and intense. “Da,” she repeats, then gives over from any pretence at her native tongue to speak very good Essandian. “She's informed, and a bird should come to Isidro to tell you of her plea sure. This is an alliance that will free her from the necessity of marrying Ivanova to your nephew, and ends all risk of your pursuit of her hand.” There's a moment's hesitation in which it seems Akilina will say something else, but it passes and she simply concludes, “She will, I think, approve.”

  Indeed, Irina has approved; the bird arrived two days ago, before Akilina herself did. But Rodrigo's interest is piqued again, and his eyebrows lift. “What did you not say, dvoryanin?” This time he speaks her language, a meeting of minds, or, at least, an affectation of it. Akilina quirks an eyebrow, too, and for an instant he thinks he sees humour in her gaze. That would bode well, though in the end it matters not at all whether they like each other in the least.

  “I didn't say that I'm young enough to bear children, which Irina is not, or that the imperatrix will have considered that in this dance of alliances. She wouldn't give up her own reign to allow an imperator to sit over her again, or risk Ivanova's inheritance of the throne. A child of noble Khazarian blood in Essandia's royal family is the best outcome she could hope for.”

  “And yet she did not bargain you away to this throne, or any other,” Rodrigo says thoughtfully, and Akilina, whose posture is already perfect, draws herself up further, insult and disdain written on her features. Able to see what she's about to say, Rodrigo makes a soft sound, hoping to dissuade her, and when she draws breath anyway, speaks before she does.

  “Do not, Akilina. Don't make your protests, don't trade on the high road of your own pride. We are all of us slaves to our thrones, whether we serve by sitting on them or by bowing to them. Had Irina chosen to trade you away you would have gone, because that is the duty you owe your queen. I haven't chosen you because I need an obedient wife. I require a woman of wit and intelligence and boldness, and one who brings political alliances powerful enough to permit me to wage the battles that must be fought. We both know what is expected of us and we will both fulfill those roles.”

  Colour mounts in Akilina's cheeks, reminding Rodrigo that although she's a woman grown, she is also half his age. A reprimand from him is very likely in the same vein as a scolding from her father, though if memory serves him, that man died when Akilina was only a child, not yet ten years old. Regardless, she's furious, and she's furious because he's right. It's not an ideal way to begin a marriage, but then marriage isn't an ideal Rodrigo holds to. Still, because he has no wish to enter a battlefield in the marriage bed, he does soften his voice and add, “The sheepskin truly is well done, my lady. You will be loved for it.”

  Akilina nods, then wets her lips and glances the other way, more of a submissive act than Rodrigo expected of her. “By your leave, my lord, my women will want to finish preparing me for the wedding.” She sounds soft and compliant, and her game comes into focus for Rodrigo: it is an act, and she is playing the part of the chastened wife.

  “Of course.” Rodri
go waits until she is nearly at the chapel door, framed by it, framed by sunlight that brings out the red and gold in her black hair, and then he says, “Akilina.”

  She stops at the sound of his voice: that is good. He waits until she's turned back toward him, and that she does is also good. “Do not think me weak because I admire your wit, lady. You will be queen, but I am and will remain your prince. Do not forget that.”

  Akilina goes still before dropping a tiny and very precise curtsey. Then-clearly dismissed by her own reckoning, if not by Rodrigo's explicit permission-she turns on her heel and stomps off in an obvious fury to prepare for her wedding vows.

  BELINDA PRIMROSE

  23 March 1588 † Alunaer; the spymaster's office

  “What news of Echon?” Impatience ill-suited Belinda: after weeks of tutelage and convent life, she ought to have been grateful that Cortes had called her to his offices. Was grateful, in most ways: being cut off from the spying and intrigue that had been her lifeblood for ten years and more made her feel displaced from the world. Still, impatience held her: impatience that she didn't already know the details of what she'd come to learn; impatience that whatever she might hear, it was unlikely that she'd be sent across the channel to once more involve herself in the machinations of continental politics.

  Impatience, too, that she was kept in a cold grey box while Cortes sat in the comfort of his office with a healthy fire in the hearth and a cup of good wine at his elbow. The latter, at least, he offered some of, and Belinda took it with a wretched attempt at gratitude. Only after she'd sipped did he lean back in his chair and speak with unusual satisfaction. “Akilina Pankejeff has been ransomed from her Lutetian prison and has fled to Isidro under Rodrigo de Costa's banner. What think you of that?”