by B Lynch
“This crown is the symbol of rule,” he said to the crowd, “It has been passed down from king to king, and on this auspicious day, it will sit upon the brow of our first female king. Step forward, Caliandra, to receive it.”
She took a step forward, and kneeled, with her eyes cast humbly downward. The priest laid the crown upon her head, and she saw the brief motion of his fingers to rise. She did, and turned to face the crowd. “It is my pleasure,” the priest said from behind her, “To introduce the eighty-sixth King of Barra, King Caliandra Feor.”
They clapped, for the first half of the day was complete. This was her coronation. However, her true statement - whether or not she would execute Marrol, her father’s favorite general, the Minister of War, for his crimes against the Crown - was yet to come. And that, she dreaded.
Her decision had not yet been firmly made, but Marrol would be waiting in the town square, shackled and ready for her judgment. That was the greatest weight on her head, heavier than the crown she now bore; whether or not she could end a man’s life. If she didn’t, and kept him imprisoned, she would be seen as weak; if she let him go, a fool. Fenwyn and her mother would never forgive her - and the sole comfort would be in the chance that, one day, she might see Royth hanged for what he’d done.
But if she brought down Peacebringer on Marrol’s head, and spilled his blood… she would lose the chance for justice. Forever. Royth wouldn’t stay and allow himself to be dragged back up to Barra in chains. No sane man would. And worse still, she would have Marrol’s death squarely on her hands. It wasn’t the sort of thing a King delegated, or had the chance to; it was the King’s responsibility to wield Peacebringer, and to do its name justice. And if the price of justice was execution, it was the King who paid it.
The King’s guard were waiting for her, in their bright blue ceremonial garb and gold-leaf decorated armor, shining in the sun, all mounted on horseback. They stood at the ready, with her white horse, saddled and ready. She strode up to it with the crowd behind her and placed one foot in her stirrup; bracing the bottom of Peacebringer’s shaft against the ground, she pushed up, and helped herself onto her horse, much to the surprise of those around her - and to the disappointment of the guard who stood by, eager to help.
“Now is not the time for a King to appear reliant,” she whispered to him. The guard nodded, and backed away. Caliandra tugged her reins slightly to the left, and turned her horse towards the town of Alton, where the execution was set to take place. She hesitated, thinking she should be waiting for a signal - but then remembered that it was she who now made that decision. She brought her horse to a slow trot, and the guards followed suit; anything faster than that would look unseemly. In reality, she wished that she could bring him to a full gallop, and be done with it. The coronation was easy to bear; it was a matter of ceremony, and ceremonies were at worst tedious. They prolonged the inevitable.
Riding to town was not a silent affair; there were trumpeters, flutists, drummers, and singers who filled the air with traditional Barrish songs that glorified the King, that spoke of hundred-year reigns and bountiful harvests and the King’s infinite wisdom… and she wondered why they would speak of such things that could not possibly be true. She was only a woman, not Yom, and yet, they changed the wording of the songs just for her. Had she no great decision hanging over her mind, she might have found it flattering, but her mind was on the act, and Marrol’s pending doom.
Caliandra noticed a horse with a separate guard come alongside her own; it was her mother’s. “What troubles you?” Sophine asked.
“Nothing you can help with,” Caliandra replied, her tone distant and abrupt. It was nothing she wanted to discuss, either.
“Caliandra,” Sophine replied, softer, “I wish there could be another way, but… it must be done.”
“I know,” Caliandra said.
“The wisest choice is often the most difficult,” Sophine said. “Your father once told me that, years ago, and I’ve found it hard to disagree with. More so, now that you are the King.”
“What did he do, when he had to…?” Caliandra asked. Sophine’s face drew downward, and she sighed.
“It was not easy for him,” Sophine said, “It never was.” Caliandra looked back ahead, away from her mother; Alton was almost in full view. A few more minutes’ ride, and she’d be in the town center, where a crowd had already begun to gather. She could see them beyond the green fields of grass that surrounded her, and the trees to her left and right; people clustered near the executioner’s platform, anticipating her arrival. She had forgotten how easily a death became a spectacle, especially when it was a matter handled by the king. “It will be no less difficult for you… but if you need comfort when it is done, I will be here for you.”
“Thank you, Mother,” Caliandra replied, with a sad smile. “I only hope I don’t make a fool of myself.”
“They’ll be too afraid to think you a fool,” Sophine said. “Haven’t you heard the singers, child? You are Yom’s vengeful right hand.”
“I would hate to disappoint them,” Caliandra said. She looked back to the path ahead; they were almost to the town’s north entrance. A crowd had already gathered on the outskirts, and waited for her arrival. The music began anew, pronouncing the great Barrish King to the people, who were indeed dumbfounded; some, even angry. They shouted at her, and jeered, and it rankled her - but it wasn’t unexpected. She had thought people would react poorly to a female King, and she was right. As Caliandra looked into the crowd, she saw some women with a certain pity, or horror on their face; it was not because of her. It was for her.
Yom Above, she thought. They’re worried for me.
“That’s not the real axe!” a man’s voice shouted, from the crowd. “You goddamn liar. Where’s the real king? Where’s the real king?”
“Don’t answer him,” Sophine cautioned. Caliandra did not listen to her mother. She stopped her horse, and the procession behind her came to a halt.
“The real King stands before you,” Caliandra said, to the crowd. “And if you doubt this is Peacebringer, come forward, and make yourself known, if you have the courage.” The people shifted in their spots, and looked about; a man stepped forward, stout of build, balding but bearded, his mane flecked with silver streaks. He towered over her. “So,” she said, looking him dead in the eyes, “You think I am a liar?”
“Aye,” he growled. “Prove me wrong.” He leaned forward, slightly, his shoulders lowered, as if preparing to battle; she did her best not to be intimidated.
“Easily,” she said. She turned Peacebringer’s head down, and held it longways. “Hold your hands out.”
He eyed her suspiciously, and extended one hand. “Both hands,” she said. “You’ll need them.” He reluctantly extended his other hand, and held them out, palm up. With a smirk, she let go. Peacebringer dropped into the man’s hands, and immediately, he began to struggle. Veins bulged from the sides of his neck as he tried to resist, but it was as if an invisible giant were pressing against Peacebringer in the opposite direction, pushing him downward. His face grew red, and he grunted as he tried to bring it upright - but instead, he failed. Peacebringer fell out of his hands, and straight to the ground. He looked down at the fallen axe, and then up at Caliandra, stunned. Never letting her eyes leave his, she knelt down, and picked it up with a single hand. As she stood up, she gently stood Peacebringer upright. “Do you still call your King a liar?” she asked.
“No,” he said, as he blushed, embarrassed by his lack of worthiness. “Not at all.”
“Good,” Caliandra replied, calmly. “You are dismissed.” The man smoldered with anger, and stared at her for several seconds; he glanced at the axe, and then, back at her, and reluctantly bowed his head.
“Your Majesty,” he said, before ducking back into the crowd. The crowd took on an impressed murmur, and it seemed that some of the detractors nestled in the far back had silenced themselves. Caliandra was pleased, and allowed herself to show it. Whe
ther that would be a mistake in the days to come, she knew she would one day find out.
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
The path to the town square was still littered with people; the peasants had forsaken almost all their duties, it seemed, except for the merchants - those who were always looking to make a quick copper. She saw them line the path, and when she looked behind her, as the procession had started up again, playing old Barrish folk tunes, some of the peasants had even begun to sing along with them. They remembered the lyrics, but they changed them to fit her. Sophine looked at her, and raised an impressed eyebrow.
“Do you think I handled that well, Mother?” Caliandra asked.
“Indeed,” Sophine replied. “Indeed you did.”
A compliment from her mother was rare indeed. Caliandra savored it, and allowed it to take some of the bitter sting out of her coming actions. In the distance, though, she heard hoof-beats of horses, winding their way through the side streets. Caliandra wondered who that could be. Finally, figures came into vision; it was not Kells, as she had hoped, but instead, Lady Patta, along with two armed bodyguards on horseback, with spears. Both of the White Stags, she noted. She thought it odd when the mercenaries shared a look with her mother, and grimaced, as if the Duchess had personally done them wrong. “Please,” Patta said, “Your Majesty. You must reconsider. You can’t go through with this. I beg you - reconsider!”
“Please remove yourself from the path, Lady Patta,” Caliandra said, “I will not ask you again.”
“Haven’t you considered my offer?” Patta said.
“The time for offers is past,” Caliandra said. “And you’ve given me no guarantee that he will be there. How dare you play on my love for my brother, just to free your husband.” With that, Caliandra became incredibly stern. “If you attempt to block my path Lady Patta, you will be imprisoned, as will your bodyguards.”
“I’m not trying to block your way, Your Majesty, I’m simply attempting to reason with you -”
“Move aside,” Caliandra said again, firmly. “There is no alternate course, Lady Patta. Step aside, and you live. Stay, and be led away in chains - and lose your title.”
Patta blanched. “You wouldn’t,” she said. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“I have already quieted one man who called me a liar today,” Caliandra said. “By all means, test me.” She saw the bodyguards, and she feared the worst - that Patta was brazen enough to attack her, on the day of her coronation. She gripped the haft of Peacebringer tighter; an execution was a duty she did not relish, but if attacked, she would not hesitate to take their lives. Patta’s mercenaries looked around, and regarded the guards that accompanied Caliandra with suspicion - as if waiting on an order. But the fear had not left Patta’s face. It occurred to Caliandra that this was a rash move by Patta - one that she hadn’t thought all the way through, and one she hadn’t the stomach to attempt. “The move is yours,” Caliandra said. “Yield, or see the consequences.”
Caliandra did not wait long for a response. Patta whispered to her men, and they turned their horses around. “You’ll regret this, Your Majesty,” Patta said, fuming. She pulled her horse out of the way, and the bodyguards followed. “You should have taken my offer!” she yelled, as they galloped away.
“What is she speaking of?” Sophine whispered, cross with her daughter - no doubt, Caliandra thought, for keeping secrets.
“She offered me Royth’s life for Marrol’s, but could not guarantee it.” Caliandra said.
Sophine paused, to think on it. “You made a wise choice, Caliandra.”
“No,” Caliandra said, sadly, “I made the only choice.”
She moved forward, toward the town square, and the fanfare behind her lowered to a somber march. Now, she imagined, was not the time for them to be cheery; a man would soon lose his life, if she could see it through. The singing slowly died out, until only the sounds of flutes and horns haunted the streets. She rode the rest of the way to the town square in silence. Even the crowd that gathered around the executioner’s platform was hushed as she approached. There were none of the calls that she expected of celebration - only nervous anticipation. They were waiting to see what she was capable of; could she indeed be as strong as they needed her to be?
Caliandra dismounted her horse, and stepped to the ground. The first impression of a woman wearing pants shocked some people, to a great degree. It wasn’t uncommon for peasant women to do so, in other countries, but in Barra, many women preferred the dress. Female soldiers, to Caliandra’s knowledge, were few enough, and though they took to pants out of practicality, it was not widely thought appropriate. Especially so for a King.
As the first female King, though, she felt pressured to prove that she would be different.
She waited until her guards had dismounted, and joined her on the way to the platform. The crowd parted for them, as nervous sheep parted before a shepherd’s dog. Caliandra walked through the crowd, head high, the crown high upon her head. All she heard as she took the steps up the platform were her own feet, and the rattle of Marrol’s chains.
He looked up at her with a piteous expression; it was a different man than the one she had known, who was tall and proud, the man who said such kindnesses to her after her father’s death. A man her family had welcomed into the circle, who she thought of like an uncle. All this, in a traitor - his eyes staring back at her with a patient fear. There was no pleading from his lips. No bargains, as his wife sought to make; he watched her, and waited.
She stood over him, Peacebringer in hand. It felt shockingly light for what she meant to do; there was no gravity or weight to it. In her hands, it felt as if she wielded a light wooden staff - and yet, she knew it should weigh far, far more than it did. Perhaps that was why Peacebringer weighed nothing for her… to remind her of how easily one’s authority became dangerous, and needed to be controlled. It needed to be respected.
“Marrol Bain,” Caliandra said, as a nervous, sickly feeling filled her stomach, “You have been found guilty of crimes against the Crown, including treason, theft, murder, and kidnapping; there is no sentence but death. Do you have any last words?”
“Do it,” he said, quietly, with an odd strength in his voice. “Don’t make me wait.”
His frankness surprised her. She took a breath, and steeled herself for her next action. There were no second chances, no magic to change the past; there was only what came next. Caliandra raised the Peacebringer axe high above her head, and brought it down on Marrol, the traitor. She did not feel it drag, or tug, or catch in his flesh; it carved clean through, as a thresher cut wheat. She heard the thud as his head hit the platform, and the sound of it rolling on the wood. That was the end of it. Caliandra didn’t want to look down - she didn’t want to see one image of it, for fear of it being carved into her memory with bloody strokes - but she forced herself to open her eyes. She willed herself to see the pooling blood beneath the severed neck, the cream-white bone surrounded by dark red - which she assumed was once Marrol’s spine - and only a short distance away, his face smeared in the pooling blood - the lifeless brown eyes of Marrol, staring back at her. Her father’s favorite general. Barra’s greatest traitor. And the first man dead to her axe.
Caliandra heard the scream cut through the air, and knew whose it was. It was pure agony, just like the one that had escaped her lips only weeks before.
She restrained the bile she knew would come bubbling up from her stomach; she quickly made the sign of the circle, and turned away from the body, Peacebringer in hand. She would clean it later; the only thing on her mind were the tremors in her hands, and the overpowering sensation of what she’d just done, drowning everything else out. A guard took her by the arm, and guided her away from the fray; others joined him, and she found herself back on her horse, in what seemed like a daze. They shouted instructions to her; she simply nodded. She only wanted to be done with it. To be home, in a bath, to try and wash it all away. But she had done what was needed of her. She had
passed her first test of character as a king - whether or not she was willing to pay the price of blood.
Caliandra walked away, her head held high. But she had felt no pride in what she’d done.
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
It was later, at the dinner, that Fenwyn had pulled Caliandra aside; she still felt disoriented, less from the wine than from what she had done. “Your Majesty,” Fenwyn said, concerned, “Are you all right?”
“Do you want the expected answer, or the true one?” she asked - more tired than bitter. She’d thought of drinking more, but her stomach was still ill at the thought of the blood, and the body, and Marrol’s lifeless eyes… she couldn’t keep liquor down, much less food. Then, there was the matter of the other traitors. They were to be executed in three day’s time. She made that a condition of her coronation; spilling one man’s blood was enough for the day. But they too, would need to die. There could be no mercy for them. She had thirty families beg her, just as Patta did - but how could she grant them that, when their husbands and sons betrayed their very country?
“The truth, please. You don’t need to keep it from me.”
“I feel…wretched, Fenwyn. I…” Caliandra trailed off. Being in the very presence of people now made her feel isolated. Her eyes had been opened to something they’d never experience. And all the ceremony, all the pageantry, it all seemed… pointless. “I shouldn’t be around anyone right now.” She glanced around at the raucous happenings; musicians were playing music that would’ve made her feet leave the ground. Wine was being poured into goblets bigger than a man’s fist, there were more roast boars than she’d ever seen, and the people had such smiles on their faces… conversations roared around her, like the fires of the torches that lit the hall. On any other day, she would have loved to be at their center. But she only wanted to crawl away, and be by herself.
“Perhaps you should talk to Josske,” Fenwyn said, noting her demeanor. “He… You might benefit from his perspective. Would you want to speak with him about it?”