by Viola Rivard
Milara gasped. “Philomen!”
Philomen came to his senses and quickly composed himself.
Eloisa couldn’t recover quite so swiftly. As he’d been yelling, his spittle flying onto her face, his aura had completely changed from its meek flaxen to a burning copper, flaring out erratically in every direction. She’d never seen such a dramatic change, but she recognized it as the hallmark of madness.
“I jest, of course,” Philomen said, his hollow smile back in place. After his outburst, it had taken on a sinister edge. “Perhaps we’re overthinking this. By all accounts, the sovereign is a pragmatic man. He wants a foothold in the south, and this marriage will give that to him, regardless of whether he finds her appealing.”
He turned and started towards the door. “Do something with her hair and then meet us at the atrium. It is nearly time.”
Milara followed him, and as the door closed behind them, Eloisa felt a chill run through her.
To keep from drowning, she became the water.
Eloisa had never liked the quote, but now she understood it better. How much easier it would be, if she could just allow herself to be pushed along through the next few hours without thought of resistance?
Though she wanted badly to retreat inside of herself, she forced herself to remain present.
“Speak your mind, Lidia. Do you think Lord Caleth will want me as his bride?”
Lidia was taking a brush to Eloisa’s hair. Despite Philomen’s urgency, she was taking her time and being thorough.
“The queen was right in that you are quite beautiful, Ma’am. And it is well known that northern men are greatly inclined to prefer southern women.”
“But there must be other women. If all he wants is a foothold, why not set his sights on another kingdom? Why hinge his alliance on a marriage to a woman he’s never even seen? There has to be something more.”
She’d been away from the tower for half a day and already she’d fallen into the Atolian habit of asking several questions at once. Thankfully, Lidia was well-versed in such conversing and responded with ease.
“I agree with you on all counts, Ma’am. There are rumors I’ve heard, but I cannot say how valid they are.”
She set the brush down, and then reached for a powder case. Eloisa stayed her hand.
“Please, no powders. Tell me, what have you heard?”
Lidia spoke her next words softly. “With your marriage comes more than just troops. The sovereign would also be providing Philomen with a substantial loan, free of interest. The terms are such that Philomen must pay it back within thirty years, though the consequences for nonpayment are, as yet, undefined.
“Some say that the loan is a gambit, and that the sovereign believes that King Philomen will squander the money. When he doesn’t repay, the sovereign will have casus belli. It would be well within his rights to force King Philomen from his throne and install his own heir as king of Atolia.”
“That seems very convoluted,” Eloisa said. “Atolia is already crippled. If his army is as great as you say, wouldn’t it make more sense to come in now and claim the throne? Why wait thirty years for Philomen to squander his fortune?”
“In most lands, even centuries after claiming his first crown, he’s still viewed as a usurper. If he secures your brother’s crown by just means, no one will be able to contest his reign. The southern monarchs and the Atolian nobility would be forced to accept him into their society.”
Eloisa shook her head. “I’ll admit that I know very little of modern Atolian politics, but the nobility would never accept a foreign king. None but the direct descendants of my family have held the crown.”
“And that is where you come in, Ma’am.”
It took a moment for Eloisa to make sense of what Lidia was telling her.
“He means to use our child to stake his claim on the Suntouched Throne.”
It had seemed that the day could not get any more bizarre, but she was now speaking as if she might one day have children.
“Precisely, Ma’am. Thirty years is time enough to produce an heir, one still young enough to be under his father’s thumb. Atolia would belong to your son in name only.”
“Does Philomen know of these rumors?” Eloisa asked, rubbing her arms to warm them.
Lidia shrugged. “If he’s heard them, I doubt he’s given them much credence. He’s convinced he’ll be able to repay the loan.”
Before Eloisa could protest, Lidia dabbed her lips with a rose-shaded cream. Rose, the color of anticipation.
What an awful irony.
Lidia turned her so that she was facing the mirror. Her golden hair had been brushed to shining and had begun to scrunch as it dried, spilling down her body in luminous waves. Her eyes were clear and round, and there was a slight flush in her smooth cheeks.
“I am beautiful.”
She spoke without fear of vanity, because at present, being beautiful felt like a terrible thing. Better that she looked so objectionable that Lord Caleth could not bear to wed her. Her kingdom might be doomed for it, but weren’t they doomed either way? Why did she have to sacrifice herself merely to slow their descent?
“Very much so, Ma’am. You look just like Queen Lusia.”
Eloisa turned to her. “You know my sister?”
Lidia nodded. “I was her lady’s maid for years. I’ve only just come into Queen Milara’s service, for the express purpose of being your maid.”
Eloisa was about to pummel Lidia with another round of questions, but stopped short when a sudden, cold wind swept through the open balcony. It could not have been past noontime, but the sun had vanished behind dark clouds. From somewhere in the distance, she could hear a rumbling sound. It grew in intensity, until the very floor seemed to shake beneath her feet.
“What is that?” she asked.
Lidia’s face had gone pale. “We should leave for the atrium. Lord Caleth approaches.”
Chapter Four
During her brief tenure as a princess, she’d heard Lord Caleth’s name only a handful of times, and always in scathing tones. Her century in the tower had made the reasons for this clear.
The most recent historical records she had seen ended some four centuries prior, and at the time Lord Caleth had overtaken nearly all of the northern kingdoms. In the south, he was referred to as Lord Caleth, because it was the only title he’d ever come by honorably.
He was old enough that the kingdom he hailed from was no more than a footnote in historical records and had not stuck in Eloisa’s mind. There was much debate about the circumstances of his birth, but most scholars agreed that he was the illegitimate son of royalty, as evidenced by his undiluted blood but lack of concrete familial ties. As a young man, he’d risen quickly through the military ranks, becoming a commander, and then a general of the king’s army. After a great victory, he was awarded a house and the title of Lord, a distinction of minor nobility, but nonetheless impressive given his background.
Any reasonable man would have been satisfied to have achieved so much in a world where it was easier to rise through a stone ceiling than through social classes. Lord Caleth was not only unreasonable, but entirely without honor. That very winter, he had organized a rebellion against his king.
In spite of her aversion to the man, Eloisa had always found The Rebellion of Whispers to be a subject of fascination. It was said to have lasted only an hour, beginning with a single whispered command from the lord, which swept through the city with virulent speed. In the weeks preceding the rebellion, Lord Caleth had militarized the city’s human slave population, and as his command touched their ears, they drew their weapons and killed their masters in their sleep. Caleth had ascended the throne before the sun had risen.
His next conquests hadn't been nearly so swift. It had taken him the better part of a century to carve out his piece of the northern continent, and the battles had been numerous and grotesque in their barbarism. He did not fight by conventional means, and was known for using dirty tactics to secure his ear
ly victories. Before long, his holdings and his military force had grown so vast that he could bend monarchs to his will with the mere threat of violence.
Blessedly, his warmongering was contained to the frozen north, where his army of frost dragons fought most effectively. Though the southern kings feared the idea of him, particularly in the winter months, there was never any real concern of him encroaching on their verdant territories.
And yet, here he was.
Philomen and Milara were waiting for Eloisa as she exited the corridor and stepped out onto the atrium. In spite of how busy he’d been, it appeared that the king had time to get a fresh powdering on his face, which was now as pale as fresh paper. Had his robes been white rather than gold, Eloisa would have mistaken him for a specter.
He stalked over to her, his smile now nothing more than a twist of his lips. When he put his arm around her, she found it more bearable than the last time, though only because her focus was split.
The sky above them darkened as fliers descended from the canopy of shadowed clouds.
The largest of them, a blue-black behemoth, was the last to descend. The flap of his massive wings was enough to send Eloisa staggering back, and she might have fallen if not for Philomen holding her up.
Magic crackled in the air as he landed, his weight causing the ground to tremble. The force of his power was stifling, and it caused the temperature to plummet, until Eloisa could see her breath crystalizing in front of her.
Standing in the dragon’s shadow, Eloisa had to tilt her head back almost as far as it would go in order to see his many-horned face. Ice crystals swirled around him, shooting into the air with each of his powerful exhalations.
Her brother’s gold and red fliers surrounded the atrium and closed in on the newcomers as they landed. Their presence did nothing to quell Eloisa’s anxiety. If Lord Caleth wanted to, he could have taken in a great breath and pelted her, Philomen, and Milara with shards of ice before any of the guards could interfere.
“Is he not going to phase?” Philomen said through gritted teeth.
Milara had joined them, her hands gripping her husband’s robes.
“Of course he’ll phase,” she whispered. “He can’t expect us to talk to him like this.”
“Arrogant ingrate,” Philomen muttered before stepping forward, pulling Eloisa along with him. Affecting a high, obsequious tone, he shouted, “Dear sovereign, you’re punctual, as always. I hope the journey was not too difficult on you.”
Philomen continued to pepper the dragon with pointless words, while Lord Caleth remained still and silent. His face was cocked so that one molten silver eye stared downwards, its focus not on Philomen, but on Eloisa. She stared back, at once frightened and captivated.
She had only ever seen a frost dragon in a depiction, and the drawings did not do them justice.
Lord Caleth’s scales were not smooth and flat, as a gold dragon’s were. They rose up like shards of chiseled obsidian. He had a long, sinuous neck, at least twice the length of any green or red dragon's, but none would think it a vulnerability. The front of his neck was lined with the same shard-like scales, and along the back was row upon row of thousands of spines that extended all the way up to his face. His head was crowned with two thick horns, either one of which would have been taller than Eloisa.
Magic trickled from his body, as it did with all purebloods. For Caleth, it manifested first in the flakes of frost that fell around him as his presence froze the humid southern air. As the minutes dragged by, the frost began to accumulate on the ground, until it began to look like snowfall.
Lord Caleth had been still for so long that when he finally moved, it had the effect of a statue coming to life. As he lowered his head, foreign words flowed from his cavernous mouth. The whispering language was unfamiliar to Eloisa, and his words sounded like a pagan incantation.
He brought his head so close to her that Eloisa was certain Philomen would shout for his guards, but her brother remained standing with his chin raised and his aura alight with indignation.
After sniffing her, the sovereign pulled his head back only slightly, tilting it to the side so that an armored figure could jump down from its perch.
Eloisa baulked as the person approached them. It appeared to be a woman, pale of skin and dark of hair, clad from her boots to her neck in sleek, black armor.
“And here comes his mouthpiece,” Philomen muttered under his breath.
The woman addressed them in lightly accented Atolian. “King Philomen, Queen Milara. The sovereign sends his regards.”
Philomen said, “The sovereign would not have to send them quite so far, had he decided to phase.”
The armored woman glanced up at Lord Caleth and spoke to him in the same, whispering language he’d used. Even on humanoid lips, the language was no less foreign to Eloisa. There were few breaks in her speech, and each word seemed to roll into the next with little distinction.
Eloisa didn’t realize what was happening until Philomen’s aura flared with panic.
Philomen hastily said, “Not that I am complaining. I am grateful for the opportunity to view the sovereign in all of his majesty. He is a sight to behold.”
The woman continued her translation, not favoring Philomen with her attention until Lord Caleth had given his response.
“King Philomen, I am continually impressed by you,” the woman translated. “One day, you must teach me how you say so little in so many words.”
Philomen let out a hysteric sort of laugh. In spite of the cold, a thin sheen of sweat had formed on his brow.
“Your sense of humor is unparalleled, dear sovereign.”
Philomen looked uncertain as to whether he should address the woman or the dragon looming over them.
When Lord Caleth spoke again, Eloisa hung on each word.
“Vesnachresh sjo?”
His language was not entirely unfamiliar to her. Cal’derache was a bastardization of Ye’derache, a far older language that had been appropriated by the Cal’derache in centuries past. Eloisa had studied Ye’derache, along with many other languages, during her time as a Child. Unfortunately, all of her studies of the language had been on paper, as none of the Sisters had native experience with the tongue.
“Does the girl speak?” the woman translated.
Philomen’s hand, which had been resting on her shoulder, tightened to a grip.
“Why of course she does. I assure you, she’s not mute. She is delighted to make your acquaintance, my sovereign. Allow me to formally introduce you. This is Princess Eloisa the First, the younger of my sisters. Eloisa, don’t be shy.”
With a forceful shove, he pushed her forward. Eloisa staggered a few steps, and then looked up at the dragon, who regarded her expectantly.
Even if she’d had words to give him, Eloisa wouldn’t have been able to force them past the lump in her throat. She could only stare up at him, her mouth agape and her body trembling from the cold.
When the silence stretched thin, Philomen was forced to fill it.
“Eloisa has never been much for flapping her mouth. She is quiet and possesses a docile nature. Both fine qualities to have in a wife, take my word for it.”
When the translator spoke to Lord Caleth, her statement was much too short to have translated Philomen word for word. She also didn’t translate Caleth’s response. The pair turned their attention from Eloisa and Philomen as they began a prolonged conversation in their native tongue.
Philomen wasted no time in summoning Lidia, who approached them with great reluctance.
“What are they saying?” Philomen demanded.
“They are, um, the woman does not feel that your sister is a worthy bride for the sovereign.”
“Who is she to make that decision?” he hissed. “What of the sovereign? What does he think?”
“He seems to be quite taken with her.”
For the first time that day, Philomen’s aura settled into something resembling calm.
“That
is good,” he said. “Make certain this wench is conveying my words properly.”
Eloisa wondered what she’d done to inspire any sort of appeal in the sovereign, considering all she’d done was stand before him and quake.
“My dear sovereign, if I may?” Philomen said, stepping forward to interrupt the pair. “Eloisa has traveled far and through the night in order to make your acquaintance. She is fatigued. If you would like to join us for dinner, I assure you she’ll be much more animated once she’s had some rest.”
The woman sighed and again gave the sovereign an abbreviated translation, which prompted a response from him, and another, longer stream of words from the translator.
“What are they saying?” Milara whispered.
Lidia said, “The woman asked if she’s expected to translate everything the king says. The sovereign advised her to do so accordingly, and now she seems to be complaining about the weather.”
“What nonsense is that? I knew she was not translating him properly. I told Philomen the last time that we shouldn’t rely on his woman. One should never trust a translator not in their own employment.”
They were all caught off-guard when Lord Caleth abruptly took flight, the powerful flap of his wings battering the courtyard with frigid air. Not a man or woman among them, the translator included, was able to remain afoot.
Eloisa would have been content to remain on the ground, but was forced to accept Lidia’s hand. As she helped her up, Eloisa saw that Philomen and the translator had both gotten to their feet and were scowling at one another.
“What was that?” Philomen said. “Where is he going? Did you tell him that I invited him to dinner?”
“I’m afraid he had to decline your generous invitation,” the woman said without inflection.
“What about my sister? Will he have her as his wife?”
The woman looked skyward, to where Lord Caleth was already vanishing behind the clouds. Her aura twisted a bloody red with scorn.
“He will have her. But she comes now. Our fliers are prepared to haul her palanquin back to Cal’en Fasha within the hour. You may send your own to bring her belongings.”