“Yes, majesty.” He crossed the chamber and opened the far door, bowing a welcome to her guest.
Princess Jemma entered like a breath of spring. Fresh-faced and beautifully coiffed, the princess from Navarre executed a flawless curtsy, her dark eyes sparkling with hidden mirth, the perfect mix of royal duty and untamed spirit.
The queen gave her a welcoming smile. “You shall make an excellent queen one day.”
“Your majesty is too kind.” The princess took a seat opposite the queen, her petite figure perfectly accented by an elegant gown of midnight blue. “I always appreciate the chance to sup with you.”
“The pleasure is ours. It is a pity duty too often intrudes.” At a gesture from the queen, the servants began carving the pheasant, offering plump slices stuffed with garlic and slow roasted herbs. Baked yams caramelized with butter, oven-fresh bread and cinnamon apples completed the feast. The queen waited until the meal was served before dismissing the servants. A companionable silence settled between the two royal women. Liandra studied the princess; so confident in her beauty she did not wear a single jewel. “At our last supper, we set you the task of studying the commerce of war.” The queen savored a taste of pheasant, the slice of dark meat accented with a crush of wild berries. “Tell us what you’ve learned?”
The princess smiled. “I did as you suggested, majesty, walking the markets of Pellanor, studying the ebb and flow of goods. Everything changed with the war. Not just the type of goods bought and sold, but the very feel of the marketplace. There’s a tension in the people, an almost a feral desperation.”
“Explain.”
“When the food merchants open their stalls in the morning, the people flock in a buying frenzy. Most stalls turn barren in less than an hour, yet the harvest was good and the wagons keep coming.”
“Hoarding. The people fear a siege, or worse.”
“What will you do?”
“A fair question.” The queen’s bejeweled fingers stroked the wine glass. “We have resisted sending guards into the marketplace but perhaps it is time the crown enforced a fair price for grain and rations for all. The people must eat and the city must remain productive. Panic only serves the enemy.” Liandra studied her guest. “What else have you learned? Where did you place your purse?” More than a month ago, the queen had gifted the princess with a heavy purse, seed money to invest in the commerce of Pellanor. It was a test of sorts, a trial by marketplace, and the queen was keen to learn the results.
The princess flashed a smile, her dark eyes sparkling, like a hawk rising to the challenge. “Food was the obvious choice, but the harvest was excellent and the scarcity is false. Sooner or later I knew the crown would step in to control the price.”
“Just so.” The queen nodded, pleased with her apprentice.
“Weapons were my second choice, but it seemed too obvious. Did you think of saddles, majesty? Every knight needs one. So I bought a share of a saddle shop and laid in a supply of seasoned wood and tanned leather. I suggested the master expand his trade into shields since they require similar skills.” Pride flushed her face, like a hawk that had just caught the prize. “What do you think of my choice?”
“Very shrewd, so you’ll turn a profit from the war?”
The princess stilled as if sensing a trap. “A fair profit for foresight, yes, but not usury, never that.”
It was the perfect answer, the type of answer she’d expect from a daughter. Relieved, the queen smiled. “You have done well. The gift of multiplying golds is a very rare talent, a most valuable trait for a monarch, especially a queen. A rich treasury should reflect a rich kingdom, seeding prosperity back to the people. As queen, you should strive to be a boon to your kingdom, but beware, lest the lust for gold become a passion. Addiction to gold has long been the bane of many monarchs.”
“Yes, majesty.” The princess leaned forward. “But now I see how you use the royal treasury to bring new crafts and new trades to Pellanor. How you shape commerce to take advantage of the times.”
The queen nodded. “Stagnation can be the death knell of a kingdom.”
“Exactly! Stagnation is the very reason we have the Wayfaring in Navarre, so that each royal sibling can bring something different back to the seaside kingdom.”
“Yes.” The queen leaned back in her chair, her mind shifting to a different problem. “And what do you hear from Navarre?” She picked at the pheasant, but the bird had gone cold.
The princess turned grim. “The sea wolves return, raiding our coastline.”
Her shadowmen had brought news of the raids but this was a chance to learn more. “Tell us more about these sea wolves.”
“Like a plague, they show up every seven years or so, their great triremes plying the seas with impunity. They name themselves MerChanters, fierce sea-going warriors who wield tridents and wear fish-scale armor. Father says they’re like wolves who give the sheep time to fatten before returning to pasture to feed.” Her face hardened. “But the sheep have grown claws, and they’ll not make an easy meal of Navarre.”
“Do they ever venture inland?”
“They might if a river is deep enough, but they never stray far from the sea, as if they are tethered to it.”
For the first time, Liandra gave thanks that her kingdom was land-locked. “And what of the Army of the Flame?” The queen knew the answer but she asked anyway.
“So far Coronth ignores Navarre. But Father is worried, he keeps a close watch on the border.”
“King Ivor does well to worry. If the Rose Army should fail, then the Flames will turn elsewhere.” A grim stillness settled over the two women. “Navarre is famed for its archers. Your bowman might make all the difference.”
“The army serves at the pleasure of the king.”
Another perfect answer. “Just so. We have been in close correspondence with King Ivor and we believe he understands that it is far better to fight together than stand alone.”
“And the sea wolves?”
“You have seen to the heart of the matter, for the king must also protect his own coastline. It is almost as if these sea wolves are in league with the Flame.”
Princess Jemma shook her head. “Their attack does seem ill-timed.”
“Perhaps a darker power meddles.” The queen studied the face of the princess, a rare mix of beauty and intelligence. “But there is another alliance we would speak of, an alliance between the Rose and the Osprey. We would bind our two kingdoms closer with a royal wedding. Our eldest son, Crown Prince Stewart, has become an able general but in times of peace, Lanverness prospers by commerce. A queen who understands the way of multiplying golds would make the perfect wife.” The queen’s voice deepened. “We would have you as our beloved daughter-in-law, binding our two kingdoms in marriage.”
A blush crept up the princess’s face, but otherwise the young woman showed remarkable composure. “You honor me.”
“The honor is mutual. We could think of no better bride for our son.”
The princess stared at her hands, her face strangely guarded. Liandra had hoped for more emotions, perhaps a spark of joy, but duty had a way of smothering sentiment. “Of course, the marriage will depend on King Ivor’s consent. Our swiftest courier carries our proposal to the king. Assuming he consents, it is our wish that you be married when Prince Stewart next returns to Pellanor. It will be a wartime wedding but it will not lack for pomp or ceremony.”
“And the prince, is this what he wants?”
“Wants have nothing to do with a royal marriage. This is a marriage of state, an alliance between two kingdoms.”
“But what of love?”
Softly spoken, yet the question hit like an arrow to the queen’s heart. Liandra’s breath caught, her own betrayal still too raw. “Love and crowns rarely mix. If you must choose, we advise you to take the crown and never let go. Erdhe is full of kings and knights but few queens. Men will try and use you for your beauty and your power. Take our advice and use them before they
use you, for we would spare you the pain.” The queen hid her own wounds beneath a mask of stone. “Besides, you were born to royalty. To women like us, marriage is a duty. If you are lucky, love may come later.”
The face of the princess remained as brittle as glass.
Her stoic silence irked the queen. “Can you honestly say the crown of Lanverness does not appeal? You were born for the game of power, for the chase of golds. We have seen it in your face, heard it in your voice, as if you were our own daughter. You understand that it is not so much about wielding power as it is about making the greatest difference. Leadership is the ultimate proof that individuals matter. In Navarre, you are one of seven, competing for the throne, in Lanverness you will be the next queen.”
The fire snapped and crackled, filling the silence between them.
The princess took a deep breath. “All that you say is true, but,” her voice dropped a notch, “your son loves another, and that other is mine own sister.”
So loyalty explained her reluctance, the realization made the queen want her all the more.
“A marriage between Jordan and the crown prince will do just as well, giving you the alliance you seek, the Rose wedded to the Osprey.”
The queen stretched her memory. “Your sister, Jordan, the swordish one?”
“Yes.” A note of defiance crept into her voice. “Jordan can dance the steel as well as any man, and she is loyal, brave, and true. And she has gone to the Kiralynn monks to learn the art of war.”
“We do not seek a second son, but a daughter-in-law.”
“Jordan will make a fine queen.”
“Perhaps for Navarre.” Liandra drilled the princess with her stare. “Do you honestly think she would wear the rose crown half as well as you?”
The princess stilled, her face pale, her gaze averted.
Liandra deliberately let the silence linger. The fireplace snapped and crackled, releasing a breath of pine, and still the princess would not meet her gaze. “Your silence shouts the answer.”
“But…”
The queen raised a hand, forestalling the argument. “Your loyalty does you credit, but think of the greater good. And think of yourself as well. Name one other kingdom besides Navarre where the queen is anything but a broodmare.”
The princess paled, her eyes turning dull as stones.
“We would spare you that fate.” The queen’s voice turned kindly. “We believe you are meant for greatness. To be a queen is to be a boon to your people. Tell us that you do not desire to be a powerful monarch?”
The princess flushed, her gaze retreating to her hands.
Liandra had her answer. “In time, you will see the wisdom of our words. Meanwhile, the decision rests in the hands of King Ivor. Trust him to make the right choice. Let duty be your guiding star.”
Princess Jemma looked up then, her dark eyes as keen as any sword. “Is that what you’ve done, majesty? Followed duty or have you blazed your own trail?”
Another deep thrust to the heart. The princess was sharp and prickly, but she deserved the truth. “For a queen who rules, there is no timeworn path. Yet the welfare of our people is ever our goal.”
“Always the queen, never the woman?”
The queen’s breath caught, hearing an eerie echo of her lover’s accusation. Liandra waited for several heartbeats before answering. “Our loyal lords all covet our power. Some hide it better than others, yet they are all hounds chasing the royal hind. Remove the crown for just one night and it is easily lost.”
“It sounds lonely.”
“Lonely…perhaps,” the queen swallowed her own pain, “but never underestimate the difference a crown can make. In a world of kings and knights, women rarely matter, little more than chattel for the marriage bed. Yet look at us. None would dare say the Queen of Lanverness does not matter.”
The princess nodded, her face solemn. “None, majesty.”
“We will tell you a secret. Crowns magnify. They magnify the person, they magnify the actions. Once you have tasted a larger life it is hard to be diminished. We do not speak of opulence or the obedience of others, but rather the ability to employ all our intellect in order to make the greatest difference. To feel knowledge and purpose pulse through our veins, that is the very nectar of the gods.”
“You speak of the crown as if it is a calling.”
“Greatness is a calling. We hope you will dare reach for it.”
The princess turned thoughtful. “You have given me much to consider.”
“We hope you will choose wisely.”
The princess’s gaze sharpened to a sword thrust. “Do I have a choice?”
“A great queen always finds a way to have a choice.”
The sparkle returned to the princess’s eyes, the irrepressible glint of a challenge accepted. She bowed her head in homage. “Majesty, I have gained so much from this Wayfaring. No matter the future, I owe you a debt of thanks.”
“Then repay us by becoming our daughter-in-law. Do not let destiny pass you by.”
The princess did not reply. “Do I have your leave to go?”
“Yes.”
The princess curtseyed, making a graceful exit, while the queen lingered at the table. Liandra sipped a glass of merlot while basking in the warmth of the fire, considering the conversation. Princess Jemma lacked experience but she was a rare gem of many facets. In the proper setting she would make a fine queen, especially under Liandra’s tutorship. Assuming King Ivor approved, the queen expected duty to prevail. Then she would have two candidates for queen, a daughter-in-law and a daughter. Lacing her hands across the subtle bulge hidden by pleats of velvet, she stared into the crackling flames. But the question of succession mattered not, unless she won the war. And so far, the dispatches painted a grim picture, villages burned, her people murdered, and an invading army too numerous to count. Liandra’s hands curled into fists. In a war against religious fanatics, the queen suspected there were only two possible outcomes, victory or annihilation.
16
Stewart
“Keep them moving!” Prince Stewart rode at the column’s rear, keeping a close watch on the villagers as well as the new recruits, everything moving too slow for his liking. Farmers cracked whips and the oxen struggled to quicken the pace but the column limped south no faster than an old man could amble. Overloaded wains creaked and groaned, piled high with grain and dirty-faced children and chickens tied to tethers. Refugees clogged the dirt road, herding cows and goats and pigs and children. Pots and pans dangled from nearest wain, marking the leagues with a discordant clang. Dirt-stained and weary, the refugees from three villages trudged in a line straggling half a league long. His soldiers provided an escort, trying to hurry the exodus, but the oxen only walked so fast. Burdened with the fall harvest, the oxen teams held the column to a crawl. Frustrated, Stewart glanced skyward, worried the rising dust cloud sent a signal to the enemy.
“Keep moving!” Stewart beat the rump of a milk cow with the flat of his sword. The bovine bellowed in protest but then leaped back into line. Livestock had a tendency to wander, but at least the villagers needed no urging. Dark pillars of smoke scored the afternoon sky, rising above the distant hills like a doom. The enemy had a penchant for fire. Another village lost to invaders, but the Rose army could not be everywhere.
Anxious to quicken the crawl, he asked his stallion for a canter. A dozen officers kept pace behind him, his trusted aides and his escort.
Stewart cantered along the column, urging the people to haste. Despite their weariness, they looked up as he passed, especially the children. Most did not recognize his face, for he was as dust-stained as any soldier, but they cheered when they caught sight of his blue steel sword.
“The prince! The prince!” The chant rose from the children.
Standing in the stirrups, he unsheathed his longsword, flourishing it toward the heavens. Four feet of sapphire blue steel glittered in the afternoon light like a promise of protection.
Hope kindled in the eyes of the people. They raised a cheer, showing more heart than he’d seen in days.
Stewart watched their faces, always amazed by the power of blue steel. His mother had been right to commission the sapphire swords; he just prayed he was hero enough to wield it.
He topped a rise and got a better view of the column, a dark straggle stretched along the dirt road. Near the front, a wain had lost a wheel, slowing the column to a halt. “By the nine hells.” If it wasn’t one thing, it was another. Sheathing his sword, he urged his stallion to a gallop.
A knot of soldiers and peasants swarmed the wain, arguing over the problem. He nosed his stallion amongst them. “Why the delay?”
A young sergeant looked up. “The rear wheel’s broke, m’lord.”
“Then change the wheel and get the column moving. We’ve no time to waste.”
A gruff-faced drover intervened. “Beggin’ your pardon, lord, but it’s worse than that. The axel’s broke and there’s no way to repair it.”
Stewart swung down from his warhorse and peered beneath. Sure enough, the rear axel was snapped like a twig, sundered by an abundant harvest. He shook his head in frustration. “Unhitch the oxen and clear everything off. Leave nothing for the enemy.” Villagers leaped to obey, but this was one of the granary wains, loaded to overflowing. Sacks and bushels and baskets could only hold so much, and all the other wains were already full to bursting.
A young sergeant approached. “My lord, it’s still more than two-thirds full. Shall I set the wain afire?”
Every soldier knew the queen’s orders. Nothing from the fall harvest was to be left behind.
“No fire.” Stewart shook his head. “Set a fire to the wain and you’ll invite the enemy to attack. Might as well send them a courier with our position.”
“Then what sir? We haven’t time to bury it.”
He stared at the wain, knowing he couldn’t risk setting it alight, nor could he leave it behind to succor the enemy, a vexing problem. Then he had a sudden thought. A devilish grin flashed across his face. “Piss on it.”
S&SS [04] The Poison Priestess Page 15