by Gail Gernat
“The king is dead. Long live Queen Illera!” the trio intoned.
The maidservants joined them.
“Long live Queen Illera!”
Shaking her head, she backed from the room into the hallway.
“No,” she whispered, “No, it can’t be. I won’t have it.”
The doctor strode to her and gave her a small shake.
“Then who will have it. Sir Garth? King Korul? It is your father’s legacy to you. Would you let him down so?”
The pain of loss was a living thing inside of her breast, clawing and tearing her insides to shreds. Although her knees wobbled, she made her way to her old rooms, collapsing on the bed. The tears were dammed up inside, drowning her powers of thought and reason, waging their own war with the pain of her father’s death. Maggie winged in through the open windows and perched on her lap making soft and sympathetic noises. Absently, Illera stroked the shining black and white feathers. Gradually a rising commotion in the courtyard grew upon her awareness. She moved to the window, but could make no sense of the noise. A timid tap on the door made her jump.
“Excuse me your majesty,” Orille, the major domo said, “but the people wish to confirm for themselves that you are back and have taken your place as the rightful ruler of Madean.”
His gimlet blue eyes regarded her with pity, and the light from the window bounced from his bald head as he bowed to indicate she should follow him. His slender hands, with long delicate fingers, pointed down the hallway, urging her without words. She looked at her dirty and travel-worn clothing, sweat-stained and spattered with lather. A queen should appear with dignity, but all her belongings were at Korul’s castle, and the few remains left in her room would not create the impression of royalty. If the people could not accept her as she was, then so be it. She followed the butler.
Orille threw open the doors of the balcony. King Ian had used it to watch contests in the courtyard and to address the people when that was necessary. Illera had never stood on it before, and this time she wished she never had to. The babble of the crowd subsided as they beheld her approaching the railing. Squaring her shoulders, she marched to the front and looked down upon the gathered throngs. Never had she seen the courtyard so filled with bodies. The inner gates opened and more people continued to spill out onto the outer bailey. The grass was covered as far as she could see, right to the outer walls of the castle. The hush spread through the crowd like wind in grass and all faces turned up to her.
She tried to speak, but her voice cracked and would not come out of her mouth. A sigh rippled through the mob. She cleared her throat and tried again.
“My people,” Her voice was weak and soft. She hardened her belly. “My people, to my great sorrow, my father, King Ian has died, murdered by the arrow of our invader from Frain, my personal enemy, Korul.”
The wave of sorrow passed through the throng, and a few sobs reached up to her and tweaked her own waiting grief.
“I have a most difficult task ahead of me, to deliver Madean out of the hand of this madman and to avenge my father’s death at his hands.”
Sounds of fear lofted up to her from the crowd.
“We have allies in this fight. The King of Carnuvon will fight at our side as will the Sorwelk from the north. I have seen what life under Korul is like, the fashion of his people and servants. It is hard, hard and brutal and demeaning. You deserve far better than this and I can think of no better reason for me to lead you against him than the treatment he metes out to his own. Will you be with me?”
Silence, then a great roar shook the castle walls.
“Long live Queen Illera, Long live Queen Illera.”
Most of the crowd was down on their knees offering their allegiance and loyalty to the new Queen. Illera bowed her head in acceptance, turned and left the balcony. Orille led her to new quarters, where a hot bath had been prepared. Illera tried to soak away the shivers as she battled the growing pain inside of her. Gowns were laid out for her inspection, but she did not care about what she was to wear. The serving girl selected a silver blue one and dressed her in that. She went to her father’s library to meet with his officials.
The walls, windows, books, and furniture were all the same, all screaming of normalcy on this most abnormal day. Illera felt things should have changed, the world should appear different, altered, but it just went on as if the best bit of it were still around and directing things. Seven people stood uncomfortably around the perimeter of the walls. Illera stalked to her father’s desk and sat in his chair.
Orille assumed command of the meeting. “I don’t know if you are acquainted with your father’s right-hand people—you know Sir Garth, your father’s head of the army, and Sir Trebut who is your father’s quartermaster in charge of supplies.” He indicated the lanky blonde man with piercing green eyes. “Of course we have the scribe. This is Sir North, a new man, just appointed by your father to be the royal armorer.”
Sir North was a thick man, not that tall, but with arms and chest bulging with muscle. His face was flat and wide with dark, drooping eyes and a thick-lipped wide mouth. Beside him was a familiar face, the short, slender man she knew well, right down to the jagged scar across the bridge of his nose and one cheek. She had healed that wicked slash in better times.
“Jarot, the horse master, has a new assistant, Elisa who brought us many fine horses…”
Illera leapt from her seat with a cry. Lark and Raven’s mother stepped from the shadows. Illera ran to her and embraced her, hugging her tight. The six men looked away and shuffled their feet. Orille coughed.
“I’m so happy to see you.” Illera released the older woman. “How did you get here?”
“Female hysteria has no place in the ruling of a kingdom,” Sir Garth muttered just audibly.
“Perhaps another time, your Majesty, I think the major domo wants to start the discussion.” Elisa ducked her head.
Turning, Illera went back to her chair. She noted the contemptuous sneer on Sir Garth’s face as she resumed her seat. The scribe seated himself at a corner of the desk and the scratching of his pen filled the room.
She cleared her throat. “I think the first thing we should discuss is the funeral of my father…”
“I disagree,” interrupted Garth, “we must discuss the troops and the protection of Madean.”
Illera rose to her feet and pinned Garth with a gimlet stare.
“Would you have presumed to interrupt my Father in such a fashion?”
Startled, Sir Garth took a step backward. The scribe could not suppress a giggle, and even Orille was smiling at her imperious tone.
“Perhaps,” Orille began in a conciliatory voice, “we should begin with the coronation of yourself, my Lady.”
“No.” Illera resumed her seat, “we will discuss the funeral arrangements for my father. We will lay him properly to rest before we have a coronation.”
Sir North bowed low to Illera. “Your Majesty, I don’t know how long Korul will hold his attack. We desperately need a plan of action.”
“Then let us discuss the funeral so we can move on to that business.”
The men of the convocation nodded.
“I want my father to lie in state with guard fore and aft the coffin for the full seven days. The coffin will be copper lined in blue. I want him prepared immediately, and all of Madean that chooses to pay homage to their former King is welcome to come into the castle in the front foyer and do so. Sir Trebut I want a table filled with food for the crowds as they depart.”
Sir Trebut nodded his head, and Orille bowed low to the new Queen.
“It will be done, Queen Illera,” Orille intoned.
“Very well, let’s get to the war. What is the situation?”
Sir Garth spoke with a sneer in his voice. “King Korul is over the border with all the warriors of his kingdom, well trained and well armed. We have only farmers and a handful of knights, poorly trained and poorly armed. We are, fortunately; thanks to the mounts Elis
a brought, very well mounted. It may be in the best interests of Madean to surrender.”
“Never,” Illera snapped. “We have men, we can make arms, and we have mounts. We need to mount a cavalry battle, a running one and to stretch his line of supply thin. Then, we sever that line. Sir North, how soon can you make enough arms for the men of Madean?”
“My Lady, with all due respect,” snarled Garth, “you know nothing of military matters and have no qualifications to make such decisions.”
“If I was given access to all the supplies and helpers I need,” Sir North glared in Sir Garth’s direction. “I could probably have enough swords and pikes in a fortnight. Shields take a little longer, and so does armor, morningstars, and javelins.”
“I doubt Korul will give us that long, especially once he knows I am here. Weapons are to be given a priority status immediately. Take all the helpers you need and contact the miners. Who is in charge of metals Orille?”
“Meredan, your Majesty,” the major domo replied.
“Send Meredan to Sir North, and they can work out the logistics of the matter. Sir Garth, you are to see to the training of the farmer’s, merchants and their sons that are old enough to fight. I want all the able-bodied of Madean assembled…”
“Do you think I will take orders from a woman?” Sir Garth slammed his gauntlets against the desk.
Illera opened her mouth to reply when a loud commotion outside the closed doors disturbed them. When her keen ears picked up familiar voices, Illera commanded the doors be opened. A disheveled crew boiled into the room, Lark and Raven, worn and dirty, Dorian and Aelfred flushed and furious looking while Ashera managed to look cool, regal and utterly in control. A cry of relief escaped Illera’s lips, and she motioned them forward.
“What is this?” snarled Sir Garth. “How dare these strangers interrupt a council session?”
“Sit down Garth.”
Sir Garth strode towards the travelers. “These men are with the enemy. They are Korul spies and squires…”
“They are my sons,” interrupted Elisa.
“And they are my friends and Madean’s allies in this fight. I said let them in,” commanded Illera as Sir Garth blocked their passage.
With reluctant steps, the Madean knight moved aside, and the travel-worn entered the room.
“Orille, will you please arrange refreshments for our guests and have the maids prepare suitable quarters. These are Lark and Raven, illegitimate sons of King Korul of Frain and they will be taking rulership of his kingdom once we have eliminated him. Ashera is the lost daughter of King Uggarick of Carnuvon, and the reason he was raiding Madean these past twenty-five years. Now she has been returned to him, and he approves her accompanying us in the fight against Korul. Dorian and Aelfred are her half-brothers come to defend their sister against the hordes of Frain. And where are the Darkliete?”
Raven stepped forward. “They are following, with most of the crew of The Waiting, all fully armed, but we came on in haste. We thought you might need us.”
Illera read the personal message in his blue eyes, a message of concern for her safety and the need to care for her well being. The grief within her chest eased the slightest amount.
“This is nonsense,” Sir Garth blustered. “We can’t include these strangers in our war council.”
Illera stared at the big dark man until he stopped pacing and stood still. The silence stretched, broken by the scratching of the scribe’s pen. Sir Garth faced her and stood still, fists planted on his hips.
Illera spoke softly. “Hear me and hear me well Sir Garth. Lark, Raven, and Ashera are not strangers to me. They have been the most faithful and trustworthy of companions, displaying honor and impeccable judgment at every crisis. To me, you are the stranger and should you question my instructions one more time; I will have you removed and replaced by one of my friends. Do I make myself clear?”
A sudden intake of breath from the residents of the room startled Sir Garth out of his glare.
“Oh, I hear you, your Majesty. Now you hear me. I have run this castle for your father for twenty years. There is no man in the kingdom of Madean more capable or qualified than I am to fight this war. You are a little girl, not even a woman yet and still; you presume to know more about fighting wars than I, a grown man and Knight with twenty years of experience. I will not be bullied by a child, and I will not be forced to fight in ways that will lose the kingdom. You are making a serious mistake if you alienate me.”
Illera came from behind the desk and faced Sir Garth, craning her head back to stare into his eyes.
“You just counseled me to surrender to Frain. Are you not being rather inconsistent? Now you are the only one capable of saving Madean?”
“I am the only one capable of saving Madean. But for what? What do I get out of saving the country for you?”
“You get to do your duty, to serve Queen and country.”
“If I do this, if I save the country, then you must marry me, and I will become king of Madean. As much as taking a child like you is beneath me, I will do so and thereby save Madean.”
Illera turned her back and paced back to the desk where she sat down. She regarded Sir Garth through narrowed eyes. Beyond him, she could see Lark and Raven and the two princes regarding her with alarm. Illera smiled; a vicious feral grin. She waved one hand lightly in the air and leaned back in her chair.
“Was that a proposal?” she inquired the smile still on her face.
Sir Garth relaxed, a grin matching hers spreading across his darkly bearded face.
“I suppose it was, both a proposal and an ultimatum.”
“Ah, how curious that my first proposal as queen should also be an ultimatum. ‘a girl’ likes a little romance, not a little force in her proposal. But being such a man of experience, I suppose you already knew that.”
Sir Garth nodded, moving confidently forward to perch on the edge of her desk and stare down at her, triumph in the glint of his dark eyes.
“So you see, Lark, Raven, Dorian, and Aelfred, that is how you do not ask a Queen to marry you. Sir North, Sir Trebut, Orille, Jarot take Sir Garth and throw him into the dungeon. That is how I respond to threats and ultimatums. When you are ready to swear fealty to me and allegiance to Madean, we can have another discussion, Sir Garth.” Illera slammed her small fist on the desk as the men grappled Sir Garth from the desk and out of the room.
The scribe, hunched over his ledger was smiling. Lark and Raven moved forward, looking at her silently. Dorian and Aelfred edged slightly towards the door as Ashera sprawled over the leather sofa facing the fireplace. A low chuckle escaped from her lips. Illera smiled as well.
“Now, I am in need of a man to head my army.”
“Certainly,” replied Raven
At the same time, his brother said, “I don’t know, we should discuss this. After all, we are from Frain.”
Looking at the desk and remembering how her father dealt with people, allowing them to reveal their hearts, she smiled again, a gentle pain-wracked curve of lips.
“Raven the job is yours if you want it. Lark, I’m sorry, but the position has been filled. Hasn’t it?”
“Certainly, your Majesty. I am honored, and surprised that you asked me, but I will work for you to the best of my ability.”
The other men returned from their unpleasant chore and Illera got down to serious discussion about the war and the tactics they might use.
Rising in the darkness, Illera paced the floor of her new quarters, bare feet padding soundlessly on the thick russet and blue carpets. Her body was exhausted, longing for the oblivion of slumber, but her brain would not be sated and let go of the day’s events. Questions tumbled with ceaseless chatter through her mind: Was she insane to alienate Sir Garth? Would he have been the best ruler for Madean? Were Lark and Raven trustworthy? Would their meager experience be enough to save her land? What was she going to do with Uggarick’s sons? Was the five days they had talked her into too long or too short a t
ime for her father’s lying in state? Would Korul attack before they could prepare? Illera rammed her fingers into her hair and pulled, willing all the nagging decisions to leave her alone. Her father was gone. It was enough to ponder the implications of that without polluting her mind with these necessary but unanswerable questions. She donned and tied a thick, red, velvet robe around her waist. The stairs were dark, the torches few and far between with menacing shadows reaching for her as she descended.
The bier was set in the foyer, in the mathematical center of the large space. Eight tall beeswax candles flickered, four at the head and four at the foot of the shimmering copper coffin. Her steps slowed as she approached, wanting to see, yet unwilling to believe in her heart what lay there. All day she had managed to avoid this, although they told her the village people were thronging by, leaving small offerings of woodland and garden flowers. The floor in front was littered with the wilted blooms. The women had been quick and efficient in preparing the body, and the cloying odor of cinnamon and cloves overlay the sweet corruption of wounds and death. The guard at the head of the casket shifted his position, his full armor catching the light and her attention.
“Is everything all right?”
Illera tried to smile and failed. “Yes, thank you. I just couldn’t sleep, and I wanted to say my farewell without the entire country watching.”
“Would you like us to leave?”
“No, he was a good king, and he deserves the honor you grant him by your presence.”
The guard shifted back into the shadows, and Illera tiptoed to the coffin. The floor was cold on her bare feet, and she was shivering despite the warmth of the robe. She looked at the coffin material first. It was dark in the candlelight, dark, dark blue, shining where the light caught it. Obviously, they had given him the finest material from the storerooms. Her eyes traveled down the darkness to the pale face. His white hair was combed neatly, and the purple-veined lids were closed over his eyes. Except for the pale coloring of his face and its lack of movement, he could be asleep. She watched to see, if by some mistake he might take a breath or a nostril flutter with the indrawing of air. The lines of pain around his eyes reminded her of all he had been through in the last weeks since she was sent away. Some wicked sprite had graven sharp lines from his nose to the corners of his mouth and painted unhappy wrinkles on his forehead.