by Gwynn White
The senior of the two bowed to her. “My sincerest condolences, Your Highness.”
One of the Able, kind to her? It surprised her, although she tried not to let it show.
“Thank you. Your kindness is appreciated.”
Zandor peeled away from the tapestry-clad wall. The only time Zandor had left this spot since Lazard had taken ill was when he’d accompanied her to Niing’s cavern to brew Lazard’s potion.
Showing no sign of exhaustion, Zandor glared, first at the musketeer and then at Peckle.
The cat glared straight back. The musketeers ignored him.
Zandor’s brown eyes searched her face. If he noticed the traces of her tears, he gave no sign of it. “Is there anything I can do?” He doubled up with an attack of sneezes. “Other than drown the cat?”
Peckle hissed, then rubbed his wiry frame against Zandor’s leg.
Within the hour, her friend would be covered in welts.
She swatted Peckle. “Stop it. You know he doesn’t like you touching him.”
Peckle stalked off to wait at the top of the stairs, head held high as if he knew exactly what he had done and was thrilled with the result.
She looked up at Zandor and smiled her apology for the cat. “Just having you here with me is all I need.”
Zandor scratched his arm—the skin, exposed by his rolled-up cotton sleeve, already looked sore and blotchy. “Then it is worth putting up with your confounded cat.”
“You know that he chose me.”
“That’s the only thing that recommends him.”
She suppressed a smile, aware that the musketeers listened to every word. She didn’t like drawing attention to Zandor’s Infirmity when it wasn’t as obvious as so many others.
She spoke to the senior officer. “The priests will be coming to collect His Majesty for his send-off. Please let them into the chamber.”
The priests would place Lazard in his gondola, and the whole city would gather at the side of the canal to see the tide take him to his rest.
To Zandor, she said, “I’m going to Niing. I have something urgent to discuss with him. I expect Keahr will be waiting for us there.”
Zandor’s perfect dark eyebrows rose, but he knew better than to question her in public about things only discussed in Niing’s cavern.
He offered her his arm. She didn’t want to take it in public, for the musketeers to see her exhaustion, but without the support, she was afraid that she would fall. They walked in silence down the sweeping stairs, where Peckle waited. The cat stalked behind them.
She had once dreamed of a relationship with Zandor. He would have made her an excellent husband—excepting for two trifling matters. Firstly, while the Intelligentsia would struggle to accept a consort who was Infirm, they would choke on the idea of her marrying a man who didn’t come from one of the noble families.
While Mamma had been of noble blood, the uproar surrounding a king marrying an Infirm woman had finally led to her murder. She wouldn’t risk Zandor’s life.
And then there was the little problem of Zandor’s taste in the women he liked to bed. They didn’t include scrawny, Infirm redheads with freckles so dark they looked like scars.
No, she had long since written off Zandor as a husband. But whatever he lacked in romantic possibilities, he more than made up for in friendship and loyalty.
They reached the main piazza. Constructed from honey-colored stone carved from the hills around the city, the entire precinct gleamed gold in the early morning sunlight. The sweet scent of ornamental oranges growing in pots around a tinkling fountain in the center of the square almost overwhelmed her. She breathed deeply to calm her nerves.
Across the piazza, under cheerful umbrellas, a group of Able courtiers breakfasted at wrought-iron tables and chairs. They looked up from their pastries and coffee.
Recognition flared in each eye.
A long hesitation, and then, amid the scraping of chairs, they lumbered to their feet to bow.
She narrowed her eyes at the slight; if she had been with Lazard, they would have jumped to acknowledge the presence of royalty.
How would they react to having her as their queen?
I first have to find a husband.
Unable to resist spoiling their morning, she walked over to join them. Her hand flicked out at the Ryferian flag flying at half-mast above the clock tower. Beautiful blue silk hung limp in the still morning air, emblazoned with a silver emblem representing the iron, coal, and agrimony that protected the kingdom from magic. “I take it that you’ve heard our terrible news?”
A dozen eyes shot to the flag. The courtiers’ faces paled. One opened his mouth to stutter something—an apology, perhaps, for their rudeness on the day she should have ascended to the throne.
Zandor cut him off. “And yet they sit at breakfast as if today were no different from any other.”
She suppressed a smile. Taunting Able courtiers was not exactly queenly—Niing would be furious with her if he knew—but today she needed to vent. Her beloved brother had been murdered as sure as that flag flew, and there was nothing she could do about it. In a battle against Artemis, these Able courtiers would never take her side.
Lazard would sail out to sea unavenged. Just as Mamma had.
Still, there was no point in alienating her future subjects. She moderated her tone. “The king’s gondola sails at noon. Lord Artemis has arranged the procession. No doubt I will see you all there.”
Heads nodded, and their spokesman bowed. “Of course, Your Highness.” He looked up and caught her eye. “Are we to assume that His Majesty’s send-off will soon be followed by a royal wedding?”
A couple of the women, glamorous creatures in their tunics, silk corsets, and surcoats, sniggered at that unlikely event.
Humiliation burned through her. For a few seconds, her entire body was redder than her flaming hair. Refusing to wilt, she pulled herself up as tall as her spine could stretch. “Watch the mail. Your invitation will be delivered before the solstice.”
Without waiting for a reply, she flounced across the courtyard, through a narrow stone archway, into yet another smaller but equally gracious piazza that led to Niing’s burrow.
This one was deserted.
She slumped onto a stone statue and looked at Zandor with anguished eyes. “What have I just done?” The autumn solstice was just one month away.
His shoulder twitched, as if he were shrugging off a fly. “What you always do. You speak, and then you think. You can’t back down now. The loss of face would be unrecoverable. You know what these people are like.” He scratched his stubble. “Any suggestions for a suitor?”
“Of course not,” she snapped. “How could I have been so stupid?” She caught Peckle watching her with disapproval. “Even the cat thinks I’m an idiot.”
“No, you’re a woman who has just lost a much-loved brother, who also happens to have been her king.” The gentleness in Zandor’s voice surprised her. “That must be fraught with issues for you. Why else would we be headed for Niing?” He turned to the cat. “And if you don’t want me to kick your furry ass right over that Guardian, I suggest you wipe the contempt off your face.”
Peckle hissed, then streaked past Zandor, making sure he rubbed his fur on Zandor’s leg.
Zandor raised his boot, but Peckle had already reached the Guardian on the opposite side of the piazza.
Thousands of iron constructs powered by steam, coal, and agrimony dotted the kingdom, and one of them, this twenty-foot-tall Guardian was shaped like a centaur—a Magical creature long since driven from Ryferia. Set on rails, the centaur swished its iron head and stomped its metal hooves as it slowly turned on its spindle.
At the end of a bitter war between the Magical and the Untalented—what a demeaning name!—Aurora’s far-removed grandfather, Nethric, and his army had destroyed the Magical with Guardians just like these. An alchemist like her, Nethric had encircled the kingdom with Guardians to keep all future attacks by Magical
people at bay. Since those far-off days, no magic had ever dared rear its vile head in their kingdom.
For all that, Aurora hated the Guardians, which hemmed her in and controlled her. Also, Niing always seemed frailer when in the presence of the statues.
She wasn’t alone in her dislike of the constructs. Despite being worshiped as religious icons, all the Infirm tended to have an almost instinctive distrust of them. Yet another chasm in their society, only the Able worshiped them the way Nethric and his followers had intended.
Zandor scowled at the iron centaur, then grabbed her hand. “We don’t have much time before the send-off, and Keahr will want to get you all dressed up. Let’s get you to Niing.”
She nodded. If anyone could help her solve this disaster she had created for herself, it would be her tutor.
Chapter Seven
Aurora snatched at her dress, longing to be underground away from the blistering sun. The solarium guarding the entrance to Niing’s underground cavern was already unpleasantly hot. It was thanks to her need to grow herbs for her potions that this glass building even existed. Unable to tend her garden in the sun, it had been designed to channel sunlight onto moving mirrors below ground that lit her garden at the far end of Niing’s cavern.
With Zandor at her side and Peckle leading, she hurried to the stairs that led into Niing’s domain. Hewn from the bedrock the cavern had been carved out of, the stairs were narrow and slippery with moss. Having grown up scrambling up and down them, she didn’t falter as she descended into the blessed gloom of Niing’s world.
The man himself stirred a boiling glass. From the smell of the steam and smoke disappearing up the vent in the roof, Niing worked on a victory potion. White eyebrows spiked, Niing peered over the low table at her. “It’s over, I assume?”
Tears pricked her eyes. She made no effort to stem them. Here, in her real home, she could show whatever emotion she wanted without censure. Although she didn’t like giving them reasons to coddle her, today she didn’t care.
Warm arms encircled her from behind. “I am so sorry for your loss, Aurora.” Keahr’s familiar, wheezing voice. To anyone who didn’t know Keahr, they would wonder how much pipeweed she smoked in a day. “But you will make a great queen.”
Aurora laughed bitterly. She wriggled from Keahr’s embrace and faced her dark-haired, dark-skinned, ethereal friend. Keahr’s soulful eyes enveloped her in love.
More tears for the loss of Lazard flowed down Aurora’s cheeks.
“That won’t happen unless she finds a husband.” Zandor flung down his bow and arrows, tossed a pile of Niing’s books off a sofa, and flopped down, boots and all. Here in Niing’s cavern, even Zandor allowed his mask to slip.
“So, the bastard is going through with it.” Keahr’s voice rasped with anger. She always struggled to breathe when she was cross.
“Keahr,” Niing reprimanded. “No matter what Lord Artemis is, we will not be having such language here.” He flicked off the burner and shambled over to a bright-red sofa closest to the pot-bellied stove. Without shifting the books—or Peckle, who had already grabbed the prime spot—he edged his round bottom onto the edge of it. He took a moment to stuff and stoke his pipe.
The earthy scent of the smoke comforted Aurora now as it had when she’d been a child. Even Keahr, who struggled to breathe, claimed she felt better when Niing smoked.
“So, we need a plan to counter Artemis,” Niing said.
A mountain of worry shifted off Aurora’s shoulders. With Niing and all of these friends at her side, there was hope—small, but still there—that she could beat Artemis and live to boast of it.
Niing opened his arms to her.
She couldn’t stop herself running into them, even if it left her feeling like the little girl Artemis had accused her of being. Niing held her without comment as she cried ugly tears. What life would be like without Lazard, she could not begin to imagine. All she did know was that nothing would fill the void he had left.
Once the worst of the storm had passed, he tilted her face up. “Now, that is done. There will be no more displays of emotion until you are safe on the throne.”
She nodded as she wiped her face on her sleeve.
Niing tsked and dug into his breeches for a handkerchief. He tucked it into her hand.
She managed a smile; Niing was always so proper. Knees tucked to her chin, green dress wrapped over her feet, she sat on the floor in front of his sofa, from where she had full view of Zandor and Keahr. “We don’t have much time. The tide flows at noon. I’m sure Artemis will say something about the wedding and the succession when he addresses the crowd.”
“He should not be addressing the crowd. It is for you, the heir apparent, to comfort our people in their time of mourning.” Niing’s steady voice.
As if Artemis would ever let her speak. For that to happen, she would have to grab the podium. But what could she possibly say to her subjects when she had no answer to the marriage problem?
Zandor yawned. “That’s not our only challenge. Our precious Aurora told a bunch of courtiers that she’d be sending them wedding invitations by the solstice.”
Keahr clapped her hands together. “You didn’t!”
Aurora sighed. “I did. Stupid or what?” She was glad she couldn’t see Niing’s wizened face; he would know she’d allowed herself to be goaded, and she didn’t want to see the gentle disapproval there.
“Then we need to find you a man.” Keahr thumped the stained armrest on her sofa with her fist. Finding a man had never been a problem for Aurora’s beautiful, tall friend. At least amongst men who were Infirm. The Able would not be seen dead with one of them, no matter how beautiful Keahr was.
“Let’s have a look at your list of possible candidates,” Aurora shot back, astonished that Keahr could make it sound so simple. “I would like a chance to reject the really ugly ones.” Everyone knew how unlikely it was that even ugly men would come courting.
“Insensitive much, Keahr?” Zandor snapped.
Keahr’s face dropped, her eyes haunted.
“Stop bickering. All of you.” Niing punctuated his command by tapping his pipe against his fingernail. “That marriage law has been in place since Nethric first overthrew the Magical. So, Artemis’s moves are neither new nor unexpected.”
Aurora strained to see him over her shoulder. “I had hoped that—”
“Lazard would change the law?” A billow of Niing’s smoke filled the air. “Yes, we all hoped that. But hope is not enough. While the rest of you dreamed, I laid a plan to solve this problem. I suggest we begin unfolding it today.”
Aurora spun to face Niing. “What plan?”
“A very simple one. You will announce at the send-off that you intend holding a series of trials to find a prince worthy of your hand.”
Aurora’s mouth drooped.
Keahr shifted in her seat.
Even Peckle stirred, lifting his head to stare at Niing.
It was left to Zandor to challenge the preposterous scheme. He waved a hand between Aurora and Niing. “Allow me to introduce you both. Niing, this is Aurora, a princess who believes that no man on the planet will ever look at her, let alone enter a series of life-threatening trials for her hand. Aurora, this is Niing, a short, rotund, ancient old man, known for his crazy ideas.”
Even Niing laughed.
But Zandor was right; the law in Ryferia was very clear: trials were fought to the death. The men who entered them had to be very confident they could win, or that the prize was worth their lives if they lost. What man in his right mind would risk fighting to the death for her?
Even if any of them appeared with sword in hand, she recoiled at the barbarity of it all. The only trial she would be interested in would involve quests of mental prowess, not physical acts of barbarism. She guessed she would find little support amongst the Intelligentsia for such events.
She took Niing’s little hand in hers. “Thank you for the suggestion, but Zandor is right. No one wil
l come for me.”
“And that is where you are wrong.” It was Niing’s turn to glare—this time at Zandor and Keahr. “While you two have remained incredulous, I have actually done some work to arrange this.”
Eyes wild, Aurora rounded on Zandor and Keahr. “You knew about this plan? And you didn’t tell me?”
Keahr tossed her dark braid over her shoulder. “Aurora, I thought it was crazy. A scheme with little hope of ever happening, mainly because I knew you’d never agree to it.”
“And you, Zandor, what’s your excuse?”
“It’s dangerous. And I don’t mean for the suitors. For you. And I told Niing so. Artemis will never stand by while you find a champion who allows you to steal the throne from him.”
“That might be true, but I would have at least liked to know that there was something in the works. Even if I find the whole notion barbaric.”
Niing squeezed her hand. “Don’t listen to the naysayers, my princess. And, barbarous or not, we didn’t make the law. But we would be fools not to use it to our advantage. I’ve already sounded out a few lords and a couple of princes. They have expressed willingness to risk their lives for the chance of uniting their fortunes with Ryferia. With your permission, I will issue the formal challenge to them to assemble at the palazzo to fight for your hand.”
As grateful as she was for Niing’s efforts, Aurora hid her sadness that these lords and princes’ only motivation for this risky endeavor would be her kingdom’s wealth. “I thought no one wanted our coal and our mines.”
“And that is where you are mistaken.” Niing took a moment to relight his pipe. Frustratingly, he didn’t immediately explain but instead billowed out three clouds of smoke. “Despite our problems, Ryferia is potentially very wealthy. If the winner, your consort, could bring in Able men to tap those resources—”
“But the Guardians,” Aurora interjected. “While they protect us, we cannot have contact with outsiders.” She narrowed her eyes. “I’m not even sure how you managed to get past them to sound anyone out.”
“I have my means.” Niing fixed her with brown, beady eyes. “And if the Guardians are a problem, then let us remove them. Announce it today when you tell your subjects that you intend to hold trials to find a consort.”